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Other Tales: Stories from The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy

Marsha Altman




  Georgiana and the Wolf

  By Marsha Altman

  Copyright 2012 Marsha Altman

  Laughing Man Publications

  Previous Works

  The Darcys and the Bingleys

  The Plight of the Darcy Brothers

  Mr. Darcy’s Great Escape

  The Ballad of Grégoire Darcy

  The Knights of Derbyshire

  Short Story Collections

  Other Tales: Stories from the Ballad of Grégoire Darcy

  The Road to Pemberley

  Dedication

  I was mostly busy working on the series when I was in graduate school, so I submitted part of this book to my current class. The professor told me it was “junk” and if I didn’t submit something else, he would flunk me.

  Thanks, Professor, for giving me the courage to ignore your opinions.

  Introduction

  Welcome to the six book in our series! If you’re new, you’re in luck – the events of previous books don’t matter a lot in this one.

  I started writing this books for fun and posting them online in 2006. By what is now known as book 5 (The Knights of Derbyshire), my writing was massively popular and besieged with comments. I was very proud of myself. I was also very tired of writing about England. I had at this point a fair idea of where I wanted the series to go as a whole (and that it was going to be a ten-book series) but I felt I earned a break. “If I want to write a murder mystery set in France, I should write a murder mystery in France. Everyone can just deal.” I wouldn’t say I was young and naïve but I was definitely young.

  This is the only stand-alone book in the series, though some prior knowledge of the universe will serve to move the plot along for you. After this we return to England-based wacky shenanigans and occasional murders.

  I am not including a family tree so enjoy not having to reference it.

  Marsha Altman

  New York, NY

  2012

  PROLOGUE

  Inspector Robert Audley turned to the mortician and said with annoyance, “You are aware that the body should not have been moved until my approval?”

  Monsieur Lambert was an elderly gentleman, and so was excused to sit in the corner of his dusty workshop. “Oui. But Inspector, you were not called when this body was found. You were not called for another day.”

  Audley frowned. “That is true,” he said as he looked at the body again, uncovered partially by his own actions. The corpse of a man named Simon Roux was in a state of ready decomposition, now three days old. Monsieur Roux had been found by a shepherd at dawn, already stiff by the description of the local guard. That information was all he had to pinpoint a time of death—probably sometime in the early morning, while it was still dark, or the body would have stunk then as it did now. Only the mortician’s chemicals under his nose prevented Audley from being overwhelmed.

  The inspector probed the wound on the dead man’s neck. He had died quickly after his wounds, as no one survived a slash to the throat, much less three. “These marks – ”

  “Claws. Definitely.”

  “I agree,” Audley said. “Not a blade, certainly, but have you ever seen three claw marks so evenly spaced?” He took a measurement of one with his forefinger and thumb, and then checked the next, and then the last. “That is very rare on an animal wound. Also, strange that the animal would merely kill him with one swipe and then leave the body so intact otherwise.”

  Old Man Lambert said quietly, “It is odd, yes, Inspector. I have never seen anything like this before. Perhaps this is why you were called.”

  “Perhaps.” Audley took a final look at the messy, bearded face of Simon Roux. By reputation, he was a gambler who worked the fields in season and made his living by selling firewood the rest of the year. He was also known to be good with a blade – or at least a hatchet – and one had been found on him, unused, at the scene of the crime. Inspector Audley had barely been in town two hours and he already had the impression that the man had not been well liked, at least by the female populace. “Were you called to the scene or was the body delivered here by your assistant?”

  “I was called, Inspector.”

  “I will need a list of everyone present, even women and children, when you arrived. Was the marquis there?”

  “Non, Inspector. He remained uninvolved until the...rumors…started spreading.”

  This was when Inspector Audley had been summoned, by special request of the Marquis, and rode from Paris immediately. Normally he did not like to be approached about a case from a suspect, but apparently the nobility still held more sway than they were supposed to, because Audley had been pulled off a significant strangler case on the docks to attend to this murder in the wilderness with a startling order from above.

  Of course, logically, the Marquis was not a suspect. He had no known reason to kill Simon Roux, no real association with the man. If there were any connections, it was hidden – but Inspector Audley would find it out. That was his profession and his duty, even to a man like Simon Roux.

  ~~~

  The meeting with the marquis took place earlier than he expected, until he reminded himself that the country noblemen often ate earlier than city folk. He knew very well that the marquis would want to parade him about at dinner to show that he had brought in (undoubtedly, at his own expense) this superior inspector to investigate the brutal crime. Inspector Audley was not bothered by it, as it would give him a terrific meal and a chance to see the local people in action, from the servants to the marquis himself.

  His appointment with the marquis took place precisely at four, when the inspector was often accustomed to taking tea. To his surprise, he was not left to stand before the noble, but instead offered a seat and a rather wide selection of flavored teas. “I heard, Inspector, that you are of English descent.”

  “Yes,” Audley said. “My father was an officer. He retired here.”

  “In Paris?”

  “Valognes,” he said, making his selection quickly and waving off the servant with sugar cubes. He wanted to preserve his teeth. “He still lives there with my mother and sister.”

  “But you are the famed inspector of Paris.” The marquis was not quite what Audley had expected, not an ostentatious noble of old, trying to flatter him openly. He was a quieter man, more intense and serious, almost frightening with his pointed nose and long black hair. All the inspector really knew of him at the moment was that he was a widower.

  “Hardly,” Audley said humbly. “My lord, I am afraid I must of course begin with the most basic inquiry – ”

  “Of course,” said the marquis. “I was asleep that night. I went to bed very late, being distracted by a new book. I will not deny that I frequently take walks along my lands in the early morning. I enjoy the morning mist, especially this time of year.” He sipped his tea. “Do you have a conclusion as to the time of death?”

  Audley knew the man was clever, and also guessed that the marquis could likely tell if he was withholding information. “Early morning, but likely, very early. Perhaps one or two hours past midnight.”

  “Then I was asleep,” the marquis said. “I do not know this man – he has been identified as Monsieur Roux?”

  “Simon Roux, yes.”

  “I know of him only by reputation. He came to the village a few years ago, after the war, and never fully settled himself. He remained unmarried and was apparently a known womanizer. You know the type, surely?”

  “I do.” War brought out the best – and worst – in men. Many were left scarred by it, unable to find their place in this new France, whatever it was to
be. “Have you any idea of the foundation of these rumors concerning yourself and Monsieur Roux?”

  “None whatsoever. It came as a shock to me, but what good free countryman is not ready and eager to discredit a noble? Even by stooping so low as to start rumors about ... werewolves, or whatever this nonsense is.” He paused. “You know, it was not even a full moon the night of his death.”

  “So you are aware of such legends?”

  “Such are the things told to a child, especially one who lives so close to the woods. Wolves, vampires, witches – that sort of nonsense. I thought we got rid of that nonsense with the revolution, but apparently, not so.”

  “But somehow, someone started the rumor that you were seen running through the woods that night – or, someone with a wolf’s head was seen in the woods wearing your clothing. Am I correct?”

  “You are.”

  Audley made a note in his book. “Have you done an inventory of your wardrobe since the event?”

  “No. I had not thought to do so until people seemed to be – taking these ridiculous rumors seriously.” He smiled, and Audley could not help but notice his teeth were very pointy. “But – in the dead of night, I imagine one would only have to acquire one splendid coat to give the effect of appearing as me.”

  “True, but I would appreciate it if you would do the inventory as soon as possible, perhaps even before dinner. If a servant can be rooted out, it will make our lives much easier.”

  “Of course. It will be done.” The marquis rose. “If there are no other pressing questions, I must prepare for dinner. You have joined us on a very special evening, Inspector Audley.”

  “I have?” Audley said, rising with him.

  “Yes. My bride – my intended bride – is joining us with her companion. She is studying in a seminary for English women very near here.”

  “Very convenient.” The inspector could not help but look at the marquis and be reminded that this man was in his forties and a widower, and a seminary girl could hardly be more than twenty.

  “We are very distant relations. Our families arranged the match two years ago – hers in England, mine here – but I would not agree to it until I saw her and we felt it was a good match ourselves. So she came to study in the seminary, but five miles from here, and I have arranged that she may occasionally visit.”

  “Her name?”

  “Lady Heather Littlefield. You shall be introduced tonight, of course.” He made motions to leave, and Inspector Audley bowed.

  Something struck him. “My Lord – ”

  The marquis stopped in the doorway and politely turned around. “Yes.”

  “You said she had a companion?”

  “Yes, her friend from school, who accompanies her so she is not alone while travelling and making calls. I apologize – her name escapes me now. I am quite a bad host.” He snapped his fingers. “Ah yes. I remember it.”

  The inspector readied his pen again. “Yes?”

  “I believe it is – Miss Georgiana Bingley.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Dinner was a desperately calculated affair. The nobility of the Restoration – descendents of nobles clever enough to hide during the Revolution – were ready and eager to resume the traditional lifestyle of the idly rich, but not as ready to suffer the consequences of doing so. It brought to Inspector Audley’s mind the great Greek Temples he had read of, and then the false attempts to recreate them during the Renaissance – wooden facades over interiors, stone over buildings, all looking ridiculous and out-of-place. He put those thoughts aside when the bell rang, as he was escorted in by a server and shown his proper spot at the long table. His business was not idle musings but serious considerations if he was to solve a murder, and he had yet to even identify any serious suspects.

  There was some chattering in the hallway as the other guests assembled, standing behind their chairs – local magistrates, invited relatives, other people he would quickly identify and take note of in his book later. The marquis made his entrance, a somewhat modest one for a noble (the inspector had been privy to a few). The grandest thing about him was the woman on his arm, a foreign girl clearly lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces. Her gown was a beautiful crème color, and her style of blond hair so carefully wrapped up would have given her away as the marquis’s English fiancée, if her presentation did not.

  “Lady Littlefield,” the marquis proudly announced, as if he were the servant introducing the guest. Lady Littlefield curtseyed shyly and took her place an appropriate distance away from him at the table. She was English after all, and weren’t they so careful of such things as propriety? The inspector watched her, but not too harshly, having no intention of frightening her off if she happened to catch his gaze. He focused instead mainly on the marquis, who continued without her to his station at the head of the table with great delight. It was not in his clothing that he was ostentatious, or his speech, but there could be no mistake that pride shimmered across his exterior. Pride for his successful catch of a bride, or his upcoming marriage, or the money it would bring? Audley already knew it would bring quite a good deal of money. He had been able to ascertain that from the chatter of the other guests while they waited for the bell. How much, he was unsure, and the marquis’s own finances would have to be taken into account. Certainly that situation and the plot against him – if there was one to do with the murder of Simon Roux – had to be interconnected.

  There was one more guest. She made every attempt to enter quietly and no one took much notice of her, except the inspector, because it was his business to do observe everyone carefully. When he caught a proper look at her, he could not understand why she did not attract more attention. The girl – no, a woman, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old – was also dressed in the English fashion, though far more modestly and in an insignificant earthy brown gown that brought nothing to the eye, enhancing her own invisibility, or desire for it. She sat next to her schoolmate even more quietly than she had entered the room. Audley assumed this was the Miss Bingley, mentioned so briefly by the marquis – he seemed to forget her as easily as everyone else.

  But the inspector did not. She had rather striking red hair, half-hidden by an unnecessary cap, probably because of the oddness of the cut, which was far too short for a proper lady, who was expected to pin up her long hair every day. Illogical really, now that he thought about it – her idea seemed much more sensible, if inappropriate, but no one seemed to care. Her friendship with Lady Littlefield was obvious. They occasionally exchanged quiet whispers in English, which was the only time in the entire course of dinner that Audley saw a genuine smile on Lady Littlefield’s face. So the lady did not feel comfortable with her betrothed, and brought along a close companion for support – or perhaps it was just that she was shy or liked to gossip with someone. Either possibility was feasible.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the marquis said, raising his glass for attention, “I am pleased to introduce to you, if you have not met him, Inspector Robert Audley, the famed inspector of Paris, who is here to see justice done for the unfortunately deceased huntsman, at my behest. Welcome, sir!”

  At his behest. And Mr. Roux wasn’t a huntsman. You didn’t know him at all, did you? “Thank you,” Audley said, rising to bow to their clapping, “but I am hardly ‘the famed inspector.’” But I was called in to solve the case of a man that the marquis doesn’t care about. Or, I am called in to save his reputation. “His Grace is very generous in his compliments.”

  “Don’t be modest, young man,” said Lord Rousseau, a neighboring count of considerable wealth – and girth. “I recognize your name from the papers. You solved the church murders. Someone knocking off the poor, taking sanctuary there. Turned out to be a priest, did it not?”

  “I was fortunate. The killer left a wealth of clues. One needs only to find them.”

  “The inspector is modest,” the marquis said, “while he scopes us all out like a vulture to his prey.” This was greeted by hearty laughter, which Au
dley thought it prudent to join as he took his seat.

  “I have no suspects at the moment,” he said evenly.

  “But clues?”

  “Some.”

  Rousseau was still interested, mainly because his wife seemed to be encouraging him. “And what would those be, unearthed so quick since your arrival?”

  Audley smiled. It put people at ease. “I am not at liberty to divulge them.”

  “Let us not pester my guest,” said the marquis, notably emphasizing my again. “If you wish an interrogation, I am sure the inspector would be happy to oblige you, but not while he is eating.”

  More laughter, and then the conversation turned to other topics, for which the inspector was grateful.

  ~~~

  Inspector Audley was delayed in joining the others for the after dinner entertainment by a servant, who wished to ask him about a relative in Paris who worked on the docks. He quickly answered that no, he had not heard of him being among the dead. The servant bowed thankfully, and he finally entered the large sitting room, where he found all eyes on him.

  “Inspector, I would request that you indulge us in a party game,” the marquis said, appearing to his right.

  “And what sort of game is this?”

  “Your favorite type – an investigation. It seems Sir DuBois has been murdered!”

  Sir DuBois, a thin man in his forties, was sitting in the center of the room. He put down his goblet on the stand, dramatically grabbed his throat, and slumped into his chair, one eye half-open to watch the proceedings as the others giggled in amusement.

  “And I suppose,” Audley said, watching their faces, “that I am to guess the murderer? What are the rules of this game, precisely?”

  “I, as the master of the game, will explain them,” the marquis said. “First of all, you may discount the servants, or we would be up all night. It was someone in this room. Second, there is no motive – one person was merely good enough to volunteer, and Sir DuBois was good enough to volunteer to be murdered.”