Izner The Marais Assassin

A Paris Bookshop Mystery
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80533-592-4
Verlag: Pushkin Vertigo
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 324 Seiten

Reihe: The Paris Bookshop Mysteries

Parisian bookseller, Victor Legris, finds a new case to investigate very close to home, when his business partner's apartment is burgled. Curiously, the only item stolen is a decorative goblet of little value. But on learning that two people with connections to the goblet have been murdered, Victor becomes convinced of its secret significance. How quickly can he bring the killing spree to an end, in a city beset by terrorist activity?

Claude Izner is the pen-name of two sisters, Liliane Korb and Laurence Lefevre. Both booksellers on the banks of the Seine, they are experts on nineteenth-century Paris. Liliane Korb died in March 2022.Lorenza Garcia translates from French and Spanish. Her two most recent translations are The Montmartre Investigation by Claude Izner, which she co-translated with Isabel Reid, and The Season of the Beast by Andrea H. Japp. She currently lives in London.Isabel Reid studied History and French at Oxford University and has lived in France and Geneva. Her most translations are Wolf Hunt by Armand Cabasson and The Père-Lachaise Mystery by Claude Izner.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Izner, Claude

Weitere Mitwirkende

Garcia, Lorenza

Leseproben

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 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 brush 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....