LaChapelle shrugged, as if whether Sebastian believed him or not was a matter of supreme indifference to him. “Look into it. I think you might be surprised by what you learn.”
Then he turned and walked away, his furled umbrella twirling around and around as he softly hummed a familiar tune. It took Sebastian a moment to place the song.
It was the Marseillaise.
Chapter 29
Mitt Peebles was sweeping the melting snow from the footpath before the Gifford Arms when Sebastian walked up to him.
“You again,” said Mitt, wagging a finger at Sebastian. “I know who you are now. And I know why you was asking me all them questions.”
“Oh? Who told you?”
“Nobody told me!” He tapped his finger against his forehead, his head cocked sideways as if pondering a great philosophical problem. “Done figured it out all by meself, I did.”
“Impressive.” Sebastian lifted his gaze to the inn’s symmetrical facade.
“If you’re looking for Harmond Vaundreuil, he ain’t here. Went off with the other two early this morning, he did. Most likely won’t be back before midafternoon.”
“What about Monsieur Vaundreuil’s daughter, Madame Quesnel?”
“Oh, she’s here, all right.” Mitt jerked his head toward the rear of the inn. “There’s a private garden out the back; gate’s by the stables. That’s where you can usually find her. She likes to walk more’n anybody I ever did see, and it don’t matter the weather.”
“Thank you,” said Sebastian, passing the man a coin.
Mitt’s face split into a huge grin. “Anytime, your lordship. Anytime.”
Tucked away between the row houses of York Street and the Recruit House that faced onto Birdcage Walk, the garden was irregular in shape, with its western end divided into four sections by paths that met at a wooden arbor covered with the thick, bare branches of an old wisteria. He found her there, one hand resting on the weathered wood beside her as she stared off over closely planted beds still blanketed white by last night’s fall of wet snow. She stood utterly still, and he had the impression her thoughts were far, far away, in both time and place.
She wore a heavy black wool cloak that swelled gently over her rounded belly, and a close bonnet with a black velvet poke shielding her face. But at the sound of his approach, she turned, her features registering surprise but not alarm.
“Madame Quesnel?” he asked, bowing. “My apologies for intruding. My name is Devlin.”
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four, with milky white skin and pretty, even features. “I know who you are,” she said in a softly lilting accent. “My father pointed you out to me the other day. He says you are looking into the death of Damion Pelletan. Is that true?”
“I am, yes.”
“Good.”
“Somehow I get the impression your father doesn’t exactly share your sentiments.”
“No; of course he does not. If anything, he is furious with Dr. Pelletan for getting himself killed—as if he did it deliberately to sabotage Father’s mission.”
Something of his reaction must have shown on her face, because she gave a wry smile and said, “You are surprised that I would mention Father’s mission? I see no point in continuing a fiction when you already know the truth.”
“Thank you for that, at least.”
They turned to walk along a brick path that led toward the distant park. “How long had you known Dr. Pelletan?” Sebastian asked.
“Two—perhaps three years. Father began seeing him shortly after he developed heart problems. He credits Dr. Pelletan with keeping him alive, so he is taking this death quite personally.”
“But not so personally as to try to help catch his physician’s killer?”
“My father’s priorities are . . . elsewhere.”
Sebastian studied her half-averted profile. “What manner of man was he?”
“Damion Pelletan? I doubt you will find anyone with anything harsh to say about him. He was everything you could wish for in a physician, and more. Gentle, kind . . .”
Her words were admiring. But he could detect nothing of the attitude of the lover in her manner.
“Do you know anything of his family, in Paris?” Sebastian asked. “Does he leave a wife?”
She shook her head. “No. He never married.”
“What about a fiancée? Was he betrothed?”
“No.” A faint smile touched her eyes, then slowly faded, as if the memory his words had provoked was too sad to hold. “He told me once that he fell in love at the age of eleven and swore never to love another.”
“As did many of us,” said Sebastian. “It seldom endures.”
“Perhaps. Although in Dr. Pelletan’s case, he actually did remain faithful.”
“What happened to the object of his love? Did she die?”
“No. Her father was forced to flee France, and she had to go with him. She swore she would wait for Damion. But she did not.”
Sebastian stared out over the snow-covered garden, its careful plantings invisible beneath the anonymous hollows and bumps of the blanketing white. “I take it she married someone else?”
“Yes. Some years ago.”
“And yet he loved her still?”