Murder in the Queen's Boudoir (Auguste Didier Mystery, #11) by Amy Myers

Author:Amy Myers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: murder mystery, cozy, ghost story, royalty, 19th century, aristocrat, conspiracy
Publisher: Endeavour Media
Published: 2018-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Thwarted, Auguste wandered onto the terrace of Montmartre’s rue Lamarck, while he decided what to do next. There had been no answer at the address he had been given for La Goulue, and he had been pondering whether eleven o’clock were already too late in the day to rouse the inmate’s interest in life, or whether she was installed at a neighbouring bar. Then a laundress, judging by her burdens, had hurried from a nearby cottage. She grinned knowingly and settled the matter for him. “Elle n’est pas là.” She had disappeared upon her own business and if she had any clue as to where La Goulue might be, she took it with her. There was nothing he could do but admire the view over Paris, tour the nearest bars, or reflect on the implications of Louise’s state of undress. He chose the first, since the last instantly raised the spectre of His Majesty King Edward VII’s unfortunate — and, Auguste devoutly hoped, coincidental — proximity to her at the time.

There was no one to disturb his enjoyment of the view, save an old woman stomping towards him, basket on her arm. In England, the old and the poor were swept into workhouses, but was that preferable to a miserable life and slow death in these damp primitive cottages? Who could say? It was scarcely surprising that with fame and looks vanished, La Goulue had taken the only apparent path of escape open to her.

Turning his back on poverty, he could see spread before him the magnificent view of the fair face of Paris, an elegant mass of grey buildings, with the occasional patch of green; he could just pick out the Seine winding its way through the city, and here and there a church tower. He could see Les Invalides and Saint Sulpice, but always the eye was drawn to the dominating and ugly Tour Eiffel. It had been built to last for a few years only, but seventeen years later it still remained, vulgarly proclaiming the advent of the twentieth century.

There was a hoarse cackle at his side and, startled, he saw that the old woman, who at close sight looked like a walking bundle of rags, was at his side. The smell of drink and dirt hit his nostrils.

“All Paris once lay at my feet, monsieur. So I came to live here — and, see, it does so still.”

A terrible thought came to him. Surely she could not be La Goulue? This woman must be sixty at least; she was lined and wrinkled, completely toothless, with matted hair, a worn workman’s cap, and straggly, black rags like a heap of mussel shells.

“Madame.” Auguste swept off his hat politely. “Could you tell me where I can find Madame Louise Weber, La Goulue, please?”

“Who wants her?”

“Auguste Didier, master chef.”

“A chef.” She spat delicately on the ground, narrowly missing his boots. “I have my food already.” She indicated the basket, which had a bottle of what looked like pure alcohol in it, and a large stoppered jug which probably held the roughest wine sold off cheaply.

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