Page 58 of Never a Duchess
As a young boy, he had not understood what it meant. It was his mother’s tears and bloodshot eyes that had scarred his heart.
“What is it?” came Miss Ware’s insightful response. “Did I say something out of turn? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Nae,” was the only word he could muster.
Thankfully, Mr Barbour appeared, the middle-aged fellow looking flustered and unsure of how he should deal with a duke.
“Sir! Your Grace! Welcome!” The man bowed numerous times. “Let me escort you to my office, and you may tell me how I might be of service.”
Callan introduced Miss Ware, then placed his hand on her back and guided her through the warehouse to the sparsely furnished room.
Mr Barbour scooped the pile of paper on the desk into the top drawer and offered them a seat and refreshment. “I’m afraid we’ve tea and little else, though I have a flask of brandy in the cupboard.” He shivered. “It comes in handy on cold winter nights. When the brisk winds blow in from the river.”
Not wanting to consume anything on the premises, Callan declined on their behalf. He went on to explain the nature of their visit.
“Mr Valmary said someone took ill after inhaling his perfume. He feels Monsieur Baudelaire may have deliberately sabotaged his own stock to shift the blame. How easy would it be to contaminate one batch, for example?”
The man brushed a wisp of hair over his shiny pate. “Nigh on impossible. You’ve seen how many men work here. They’re supervised at all times. If someone added a contaminant during the process, we would all know. And it would affect more than one bottle. Besides, we’ve men employed just to smell the fragrances and assess the quality. That said, I cannot vouch for Baudelaire’s operation.”
“But you can confirm there was an incident in Mr Valmary’s shop?” Miss Ware said. “A customer took ill and had a seizure.”
The man was quick to shift the blame. “Yes, but I assure you, that bottle did not come from this warehouse.”
“But you cannot be certain, sir.”
“I would stake my life on it, Miss Ware.”
“How do you explain the accident?” she said.
“Someone planted the contaminated bottle to hurt Mr Valmary’s business. That person must work for Monsieur Baudelaire.”
“Or a woman they’d squabbled over and seduced sought to exact her revenge.” Callan fixed the manager with a hard stare. “Ye do know they compete for more than sales?”
Barbour’s cheeks flamed. “I know the Frenchman likes to prove charisma is more important than handsome looks. Baudelaire treats it like a game.”
“Do ye know of anyone who would seek to damage either gentleman’s reputation? Anyone out for revenge?”
Barbour shrugged. “Doubtless, many women wish to hurt him. I’m told Baudelaire tires of his conquests quickly. After gifting a lady a bottle of perfume, he always sends a note to Mr Valmary by way of a challenge. Baudelaire uses his For Lily scent like a pawn in chess. It signals his first move on the board.”
Miss Ware inhaled sharply, evidently thinking about the special gift she received from Valmary this morning.
“Where does Baudelaire manufacture his perfume?” With the men being bitter rivals, Callan guessed it wasn’t far away.
“Follow the road past the tannery. He owns a distillery near the old Bermondsey Spa. Some say he steals into the spa at night and steals the wildflowers from the garden. Maybe he picked toxic plants and used them to poison one of Mr Valmary’s bottles.”
Coldness shivered through Callan like the chill of death.
Amongst nature, one could find the resources to heal and maim. He had watched someone he loved perish on a peaceful woodland walk. Their investigations served to bring every terrible memory bobbing to the surface.
He stood abruptly. “We’ll trouble ye nae further. I shall leave my direction in case ye think of anything important.” Callan removed a crisp card from his case and handed it to Barbour. “Before we go, do ye have anyone working here by the name of O’Malley?”
He wasn’t sure why he’d asked. What did perfume on a handkerchief have to do with MacTavish sniffing a contaminated scent? Still, they needed to know if the woman abducted from the garden was alive. A few bloodstains were hardly proof of murder.
Mr Barbour scratched his head. “No. There’s an O’Donnell.”
“Never mind.”
They bid the man good day and left the warehouse.
