The Assassin in the Marais Read online

  To Emmanuelle Heurtebize

  To our nearest and dearest, with special mention of B and J, our American expert and our Moscow expert

  To Anna, Valentina and Enrico

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Plan of Victor Legris’s Paris

  PROLOGUE - Paris, 27 March 1892

  CHAPTER 1 - The Highlands of Scotland, 5 April 1892

  CHAPTER 2 - Friday, 8 April, nine o’clock in the morning

  CHAPTER 3 - Saturday, 9 April

  CHAPTER 4 - Monday, 11 April

  CHAPTER 5 - Tuesday, 12 April

  CHAPTER 6 - Wednesday, 13 April

  CHAPTER 7 - Wednesday evening, 13 April

  CHAPTER 8 - Thursday, 14 April

  CHAPTER 9 - Late afternoon, Thursday, 14 April

  CHAPTER 10 - Friday, 15 April

  CHAPTER 11 - Friday afternoon, 15 April

  CHAPTER 12 - Saturday, 16 April

  CHAPTER 13 - Saturday afternoon, 16 April

  CHAPTER 14 - Sunday, 17 April

  CHAPTER 15 - Monday, 18 April

  CHAPTER 16 - Wednesday, 20 April

  EPILOGUE - Tuesday, 10 May 1892

  SOME HISTORICAL CONTEXT TO THE MARAIS ASSASSIN

  NOTES

  Also by Claude Izner

  Copyright Page

  Plan of Victor Legris’s Paris

  Et tu coules toujours, Seine, et tout en rampant,

  Tu traînes dans Paris ton corps de vieux serpent,

  De vieux serpent boueux, emportant vers tes havres

  Tes cargaisons de bois, de houille et de cadavers!

  Paul Verlaine

  (Poèmes saturniens, ‘Caprices’)

  And the Seine flows, crawls, drags itself

  Always the muddy serpent of Paris

  Bearing towards Le Havre its cargoes

  Of wood, of coal – and corpses

  Translated by C.K. Stead

  Le Marché des Enfants-Rouges was to be found behind a gate at 39 Rue de Bretagne. It opened in 1628 and took its name from the children’s home nearby, which was founded by Marguerite de Navarre, housing orphans who wore red uniforms.

  All the characters in The Marais Assassin are imaginary with the exception of Paul Verlaine, Paul Fort, Jean Moréas, Albert Gaudry, Eugène Dubois, Ravachol, Alphonse Bertillon, Trimouillat, Ma Gueule, Cazals, Caubel de la Ville Ingan and, of course, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

  We would like to thank all the team at 10/18 for their kindness and support.

  PROLOGUE

  Paris, 27 March 1892

  THE clock of the Église Trinité had just struck eight o’clock in the morning when, without warning, an ear-splitting explosion ripped through the district. A building on Rue de Clichy rocked on its foundations, and within seconds its staircase had collapsed from top to bottom and its windows had shattered.

  His body vibrated with the shock of the blast and he thought only: Apocalypse. The street began to dance before his eyes. The dust pricked his nostrils, but what invaded him was something other than its bitter odour, something that seemed to emerge as a long-suppressed memory of a past experience. It was the echo of what had happened long ago. A sign.

  His ardent belief in the existence of Divine decision, his respect for the Scriptures and his terror of the sacraments all stirred in him the memory of his guardian pointing rigidly towards the dark sky. It had returned, his voice growled. Always the same words:

  ‘And there was a great trembling of the earth, the sun darkened like sackcloth, the moon turned blood red … Wallowing in heresy leads to damnation. You shall be punished! Punished!’

  Glass fragments littered the roads. An old man sat on the edge of the pavement, trembling all over. A woman, her clothes torn and her hair covered in plaster, was screaming. Help was already arriving.

  The bedroom was a refuge in the dead of night, reassuring, comfortable, protected by its wood-panelled walls. On the desk, the pale pink lampshade created rainbows on the side of a carafe of water. A hand picked up the inkwell. The only thing to break the silence was the scratching of the pen as it conscientiously traced upstrokes and down strokes on a piece of squared paper.

  This morning, the wrath of God resonated once more, piercing my eardrums and shaking my bones to the marrow. The cohort of wolves in sheep’s clothing spread lies and uncertainty amongst the flock. I was there. My gorge rose; I thought my brain was exploding. I was blinded by the dazzling light. The sky beat down on us. A thousand hammers shattered my head. God reminded me what I must accomplish. I felt triumphant, for God created man in his own image bearing his likeness, and he created all things on earth and he has placed his confidence in me. As I have discovered what is being plotted, it is my duty to act. I am the arm of God. I will achieve my end; no one will take possession of that abomination. I will use extreme means. Humanity has taken a wrong turn. I must separate the wheat from the chaff; that is my solemn oath. Oh, Lord, arm your emissary.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Highlands of Scotland, 5 April 1892

  STATIONED on the low branch of a beech tree, a Siamese cat, muscles tensed, claws at the ready, kept a close watch on a bush where a field mouse had taken refuge. White storm clouds scudded across the sky, blown by the north wind that battered the trees in the park. A red moon, alternately veiled then unveiled, feebly lit the countryside. The cat could barely make out the heather shrouded in mist where his victim was hiding. Beyond a clump of maple trees the outline of Brougham House could be seen, sitting on the hill like a sentry surveying the road that snaked up from the foot of the glen.

  The cat passed a wet paw over the dark patch on his face and flattened himself against the bark of the tree. Down below, a dark shape burst out from behind a fan of bracken. The cat pounced. Just as his mouth was closing around the frail creature, a muted trembling shook the ground. The vibration surprised the cat, and he hesitated for a moment, long enough for his prey to disappear between two rocks. Disappointed, the cat abandoned the chase. Rising up full length on his hind legs, he sharpened his claws against the tree trunk and went back over to the drive, moving nonchalantly like an old gentleman taking his postprandial stroll. Suddenly a furious mass, dragged by the combined effort of horses with mad eyes, erupted before him. Panic-stricken, the cat scuttled to the top of a scrub oak, from where he observed the four-wheeled monster rolling towards the gates of Brougham House.

  The cat waited with trembling ears, his nostrils filled with the odour of horse, until his heart had regained its normal rhythm. When he thought it was safe to do so, he cautiously left his refuge. Then a new fear rooted him to the spot. Something else was coming up the glen: horse and rider emerged round the bend. The cat hissed, puffing himself up, and the horse swerved. A whip cracked, nearly taking out the eye of the Siamese, who fled deep into the shrubbery.

  Jennings had forgotten to stoke up the fire. Seated near the window, Lady Frances Stone was about to pull the servant’s bell when the sight of a Victoria coming up the central drive stayed her hand. Who could be visiting at such a late hour? Since the death of Lord Stone, the only visitors she received were Dr Barley and Reverend Anthony, and they always came in the morning. Lady Stone drew the edges of her shawl together over her thin chest and resolved to throw some logs on the fire. A feeble mewing caught her attention. That rascal of a cat! Clamped against the window, he looked like a gargoyle, with his phosphorescent pupils and his triangular face split in a rictus. Lady Stone had scarcely opened the window when the Siamese leapt on to her knee, causing her to cry out as he drew his paws across her skirt.

  ‘What are you purring like that for? You sound like a little motor. It’s not like you to be so affectionate – have you had a br
ush with the poacher’s dogs? Shh! Be quiet so that I can hear … Jennings has let someone in.’

  Jennings, in light blue livery, with breeches, white stockings and buckled shoes, his powdered hair knotted on the nape of his neck with a wide black ribbon, was straight out of a Hogarth painting. Astonished by this garb, Antoine du Houssoye followed him as far as a drawing room filled with dusty furniture, massive bookcases and armour. Jennings turned on his heel without a word.

  ‘Charming welcome,’ muttered Antoine du Houssoye. ‘It’s freezing in here. Who was singing the praises of Scottish hospitality? In any case their thrift is not a myth! No fire even though it’s so cold …’

  In the faint light of the candelabrum left by the manservant, he made out the titles of the books lining the shelves: bibles, missals and theological treatises. He shrugged his shoulders and, taking a notebook from the pocket of his frock coat, scribbled a few lines.

  I’m actually here, I will finally know if the trail indicated by the Emperor of Surabaya is the correct one. Is it possible that I will succeed in catching up with D? If I do, I will be the first to prove the existence of that …

  He interrupted himself, struck by the thought that had taken root the previous evening in the Balmoral Hotel: where was his precious file of notes that he had gathered in Java? Had he mislaid them?

  No, they must be at the bottom of one of the drawers of his trunk, or in his bag of …

  A concealed door opened and a tiny woman in a pink muslin dress and an old-fashioned frilled bonnet entered. Antoine felt as if he had gone back in time; surely this fragile little person had been born during the reign of George III? In a voice like a hissing kettle, she informed him that Lady Stone was ready to receive him. She seized the candelabrum and without looking back trotted along a dark corridor in which he glimpsed a series of forbidding portraits. Looking up, he discovered an imposing gallery accessed by a grand staircase that the little person in the bonnet was climbing as nimbly as a squirrel. Antoine, disorientated by the gloom, his eyes riveted to the pink dress, scrambled up the steps trying desperately not to stumble, and found himself before double doors that had just opened.

  A boudoir dominated by Chippendale and old porcelain and lit by the dancing flames of a blazing fire was the backdrop for a wheelchair in which a lady sat, stroking the Siamese cat ensconced on her lap. An oil lamp glowed on a pedestal table beside a pile of journals and books. The lady dismissed the wizened centenarian and slowly swivelled her chair round. Antoine was disconcerted by the sight of the pallid, angular face, all its energy concentrated in the blazing eyes, which locked on his, giving him the impression that they saw into the depths of his soul. After studying him for a long moment, she blinked and the crumpled mouth stretched into a smile. She motioned him towards her. Her emaciated body was wrapped in black lace, with a flower-patterned shawl and a wool skirt. An openwork mantilla with a garland of flowers covered her hair and a large pearl on a velvet band hung between her eyebrows. Her fingers caressed the cat’s fur. She looked like one of the bas-reliefs on the Buddhist temple of Borobudur.

  Lady Stone looked appraisingly at the wiry, tanned man before her. His short beard and pointed moustache were worthy of the hero of one of her childhood novels, the musketeer D’Artagnan. She pictured herself young, beautiful and eligible on the arm of this seductive individual, but his image was immediately replaced in her mind by the stout silhouette of Lord Stone.

  How ridiculous I’m being. He’s forty and I’m sixty-five. He could be my son. I’m acting like a young shop girl, when actually I’m an over-the-hill …

  ‘I rarely receive visitors,’ she said. ‘I agreed to honour your request in memory of my deceased brother. Please be brief.’

  She addressed him composedly in good French. She did not invite him to sit down and he shifted from one foot to another.

  ‘As I indicated in my letter, I have come to …’

  ‘In that case, alas, I very much fear that I must disappoint you. That object is no longer in my possession. As sole beneficiary, I respected the wishes of my brother and distributed his legacies to museums …’

  She broke off and addressed the cat. ‘What is it now?’

  Suddenly rigid, the cat was staring at the window. A gust of wind had brought a scent to his nostrils, unexpected and hostile. He jumped on to the window sill and froze, confused by the shadows. He listened, trying to locate the intruder, and eventually made out a tall, thin figure hanging on to some toothing at the edge of the wall. Terrified, the cat ran to hide near the hearth. Lady Stone concluded that the rats must have returned and made a mental note to tell Jennings to have them exterminated.

  ‘Where was I?’

  ‘You made gifts to museums … .’

  ‘Oh yes, museums, and the numerous accounts written by my brother and his collection of herbariums were given to scientific institutions. As for the private pieces, I bequeathed them to his closest friends.’

  ‘Do you have the name of the friend who received the item mentioned in my letter? It’s extremely important,’ insisted Antoine.

  ‘Assuredly I know the identity of the beneficiary. He lives in Paris; you can try to contact him. I’ve written down his address for you.’

  She held out an envelope and pulled the bell.

  ‘And now, dear Monsieur, my maid will show you out.’

  He took his leave, torn between jubilation at the idea that his quest might be nearly at an end and disappointment. He had hoped to spend the night at Brougham House and now he would have to make his way back to Edinburgh on those impossible roads!

  Adieu, handsome D’Artagnan, thought Lady Stone, moving to the fireplace. What can you want with that ugly object? Johnny warned me that it brought misfortune, even though he didn’t believe in such superstitions. Poor Johnny, his life cut off in its prime …

  She lost herself in contemplation of the flames, in which strange shapes danced. The cat, his fur on end, his eyes gleaming, watched a hazy apparition slip through the window, first black-gloved hands, then a foot, legs, a torso … Noiselessly, it landed on the carpet and approached Lady Stone from behind. The cat saw the pearly flash of the handle of a revolver and a gunshot rent the silence. Mewing raucously, he shot under a chest of drawers.

  London, Thursday, 7 April

  Iris had sore feet, but dared not tell Kenji. They had been wandering for half an hour among the graves of Highgate Cemetery, swept by an icy breeze. They finally halted before a pink marble tombstone engraved in gold lettering with a simple inscription:

  DAPHNÉ LEGRIS

  1839 – 1878

  Rest in Peace

  Kenji was unprepared for the emotion that overcame him. His eyes filled with tears, his shoulders trembled. He turned quickly away and removed the top hat that he forced himself to wear during his trips to London. He pictured Daphné’s graceful form in the bookshop in Sloane Square when he was still only her husband’s shop assistant. He recalled their platonic passion, the furtive smiles, the rare moments when their hands touched. Six or seven months after the death of Monsieur Legris, Daphné had given herself to him. Their secret liaison, crowned by the birth of Iris, had lasted ten years.

  He surreptitiously wiped away his tears and looked proudly at his daughter, wrapped up warmly in her cloak, as she scattered rose petals over the grave. He reflected that her atypical beauty perpetuated the union between him and Daphné: East and West are fused in her. I want her to be happy and to have a glittering future.

  Had he been aware that at precisely that moment Iris was thinking of a certain blond, slightly hunchbacked young man, employed in his own bookshop in Paris, Kenji would not only have been disappointed, he would have been furious.

  ‘Why was my mother not buried at Kensal Green with her family?’

  ‘We were very fond of Highgate. We dreamed of buying a house here, because of the purity of the air and the view of London. Daphné worshipped Coleridge, who is buried in a school chapel nearby. One day we were w
alking here and she made me promise that if she died first I would accommodate her – that was her expression, accommodate – in the east cemetery.’

  The Egyptian-style tombs, watched over by the dark flame of the cypress trees, were vaguely reminiscent of the Père-Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. They paused in front of the last resting place of the chemist Faraday, then at the grave of Mary Ann Evans, better known as George Eliot.

  ‘You must read The Mill on the Floss,’ said Kenji.

  ‘You know I’m not very keen on reading,’ retorted Iris.

  Except Joseph’s serial, she thought to herself.

  Bother! Her father was stopping again. She read out:

  KARL MARX

  1818 – 1883

  ‘The son of a lawyer who converted to Protestantism since it wasn’t wise to be Jewish in the Prussia of Frederick William III.’

  ‘A friend of yours?’ she asked, stifling a laugh.

  Kenji started. She had Daphné’s laugh.

  ‘No, a friend of the working classes. The stone he threw into the political pond has not yet finished making ripples. I find him particularly sympathetic because of the answers he gave to a questionnaire put to him by his daughters:

  ‘“What is your favourite saying?”

  ‘“Question everything.”

  ‘“What is your favourite occupation?”

  ‘“Reading.” ’

  Reading! That’s all they talk about! Iris said to herself in exasperation as she stood on the terrace and looked out at the magnificent view. The dome of St Paul’s Cathedral resembled a gigantic mushroom. She imagined it transformed into a hot-air balloon, floating over fields sewn together like a green and yellow chessboard. Kenji interrupted her reverie by declaring in a learned tone: ‘Fourteen miles from east to west, eight from north to south. London is home to more Catholics than Rome, more Irish than Dublin and more Scots than Edinburgh …’