Page 42 of The Count’s Charade

For a first time, a thin smile crossed the Frenchman’s lips. “Have no fear, mademoiselle, we are men with honour. But we will await him, if that is your wish.”

To her relief, he moved across and engaged in a low-voiced conversation with the other man. The chest had been forgotten! It was the only uncertainty she had, and it took all her resolution not to cross the room and stand before it, in case Jemima had not thought to conceal whatever she had thrown in there underneath the clean linen.

Footsteps coming down informed them Augustin had finished searching upstairs. At the door, he gave a gesture indicating failure. Loriot nodded and came towards Grace again. Etienne began to follow, and then abruptly turned and crossed swiftly to the chest. Grace held her breath.

The lid was lifted. The man’s eyes swept its length within. One hand went down, rummaged, and came out again. The lid dropped with a thud and Etienne straightened up. Grace let her breath go.

“Shall I lead the way?”

The clatter from the lean-to, sounding as they came down the stairs, was accompanied by Jemima’s high-pitched singing. Grace hid a smile. They were obviously ready, which was a relief, but the danger of the undertaking threw waves of horrid sickness into her stomach.

She took her time, clumping down the stairs with her dot-and-carry step, and taking satisfaction in the impatience she could feel above her. It was especially noticeable as the noise from below grew, accompanied by murmurs in French above, which got louder with the augmentation of Jemima’s performance.

This ceased upon Grace opening the door to the back of the house, to be replaced with a cheery greeting: “Almost done with your undergarments, Miss Grace, and then I’ll get to them sheets. As well to have them —”

The maid broke off artistically as the Frenchmen began crowding in behind Grace, who moved to the open outside door. It was a scene of workmanlike domesticity.

On a little stool sat Jemima, sleeves rolled up and a voluminous apron over her black stuff gown, her hands immersed in the tub bubbling with soapy water, which was set between her spread knees. A washboard was sticking out of one side, and a profusion of whites were semi-visible, apparently in the process of being pummelled clean. All about the floor, in the space between where Jemima sat and the stove behind, sprawled a huge pile of rumpled sheets.

Grace’s heart was thudding as she kept her eyes on the three intruders, desperately hoping, from the one swift glance she had been able to cast over them, that the sheets adequately hid Henri’s body, crouched and folded somehow into the confined space. Almost as he had lain that very morning, after these dreadful men had nearly succeeded in murdering him. He had come full circle.

“Bless me!” uttered Jemima with well-feigned astonishment. “What are they Frenchies doing here?”

Pulling herself together, Grace thrust down on her panic. She made her voice as bitter as she could. “Searching the house.”

The maid blinked at her, and turned bewildered eyes upon the Frenchmen. “Searching the house? Whatever for, Miss Grace?”

Loriot’s sharp gaze had spotted the privy. In order to move fully into the lean-to, he was obliged to stand nearly up against the side of the tub, from where he ordered Augustin to search it. The stocky Frenchman squeezed past and tugged open the privy door. He shut it again after one cursory glance, and shook his head.

The leader turned on Grace. “Allow us to come outside, if you please. We will look in the back.”

Grace shifted out of the back door with alacrity. Anything to remove them from the dangerous lean-to! All three men came out, and a swift search was made of the surrounding area, checking behind each of the five trees close by, Etienne and Augustin plunging into the wheatfields that stretched northwards from their beginning some distance away from the back yard of the little house. It was conceivable a fugitive might have escaped outside and hidden in the little central copse or down behind the bushes separating one field from another.

Grace waited by the door, urging Jemima in an under-voice to continue with her washing. She dared not speak aloud to Henri.

Loriot was the first to return. He approached her, looking sour. “Show me where you found him.”

She moved into the lean-to and pointed behind Jemima. “He was lying by the stove there, where the sheets are.”

Fearing he might ask Jemima to move so he could take a closer look, Grace kept talking, volunteering as much information as she dared to discourage him from taking further action.

“It was very difficult to get him out, I can tell you. We had to get a couple of men from the nearby farm. He had fainted, you see. From loss of blood, I should suppose. It was dreadful, sir, I assure you. I hope never to be obliged to see such a sight again.”

She saw Loriot, now standing in the doorway, was paying little attention to her, his eyes fixed upon the sheets, and racked her brains for something to deflect him. A daring thought rewarded her, and she lost no time in voicing it.

“What I want to know is, who shot the man? Can you answer me that? Mayberry sought in vain for clues around the marshes, I believe. You say he is a fugitive, sir. But you do not say who made an attempt upon his life.”

Loriot’s gaze had turned upon her, and Grace pursued her advantage.

“I know you carry a gun, but it cannot have been you, sir. You presumably have a warrant for the man’s arrest. I cannot believe you are authorised to shoot him.”

Was that a darker colour in his cheek? A muscle twitched there, but he chose not to answer her questions. Had she been mistaken to introduce the subject?

“We will leave you now, mademoiselle. If you see or hear of the man again, I pray you send me word at the Black Horse in Rainham. Our mission does not complete until we have captured this man.” He moved back outside the lean-to and walked away from the house. Grace followed, watching him call to his men. They returned to him swiftly, and he doffed his hat. “We take our way around the outside. Good day to you, mademoiselle.”

Grace followed them as they walked around the north side of the house, and watched from its edge as they returned to the lane. She waited until they started off southwards, and only then did she return to the back of the house. Jemima had come out of the lean-to, and greeted her with a conspiratorial whisper.

“Have they gone?”