Page 28 of A Ruse of Shadows
His heart raced again, this time from relief.
In the end, it took ten attempts to hit the window seven times. At least he hoped it was seven times. The last one could have fallen a hairbreadth short or struck the pane just as its trajectory became spent.
He counted it as a success because his instincts deemed it so. Inany case, in the morning there would be a small notice in the local paper—a paper known to be delivered to the house. And the notice would state, in code known only to a few,Seven.
The occupant of the room should understand. Or at least he would understand in a day or two, if he paid attention.
The light behind the window extinguished.
The man on the roof remained in place.
In a nearby street, a bakery was now lit, theboulangerbusy at work. By the time the first loaves had been shaped and set to rise again, the man was long gone.
Ten
The house Mrs. Watson had hired in Paris was situated some seven or eight miles outside the center of the city, in a leafy little community on the Rive Droite of the Seine. A honey-colored villa with a large veranda, it perched right on the bank and enjoyed a wide, panoramic view.
In happier days, Penelope Redmayne had brought her friends and classmates to the house on many a Sunday afternoon to row on the river, stroll along the embankment, or picnic in an open field. A gaggle of young people frolicking around a picnic blanket very much resembled an Impressionist tableau, all blue sky, tall grass, and luminous faces.
Even now the area was lovely, full of the warmth and verdure of summer. Which made the ordeal feel even more like a nightmare, in which everything seemed normal except for a single horrifying change.
Penelope did her best to muster a smile for the hard-faced man who opened the door. “Bonjour, monsieur.I’ve come with your provisions.”
The man squatted down to examine the shopping baskets on the portico. He tapped the baguettes and squeezed the vegetables, the leg of ham, and even the already scaled and gutted fish wrapped in paper. She could only be thankful he handled the eggs and the strawberry tarts with greater care.
“You have no cheese here,” he said with something close to dismay as he straightened. “Bring a Camembert next time. And a good Gruyère, some chèvre, and as much Époisses as you can carry.”
“I will deliver all that this afternoon.” Penelope decided she might as well be shameless in currying favors. “Anything else you’d like, monsieur? Beefsteak, lobsters, ice cream? There’s a good wine merchant who is—”
“We do not drink while working,” said the man flatly.
“No, of course not.” She smiled again. “May I go inside now?”
The man glanced behind him. He must have received permission, for he stepped back and let her pass. The woman mercenary patted her down, then escorted her deeper into the house.
She tried to tell herself that her errand was not terribly dangerous: She was not there to secretly reconnoiter or to mount a rescue. But shewasdealing with armed individuals, and she did not possess great faith in the agreement Miss Charlotte had brokered with Lord Bancroft.
Before she entered Miss Bernadine’s room, she took a moment to collect herself, so that she would not infect Miss Bernadine with her anxiety.
Inside the room, Miss Bernadine spun her rack of spools. In a peaceful mood, she set one or two spools in motion at a time and put her palm against the revolving spools to feel the friction on her skin. But now a dozen spools spun wildly. Miss Bernadine kept accelerating them, only to knock them against one another in a series of gratingclacks to force them to stop.
Mademoiselle Robineau, a woman of fifty with fully grey hair and a kind face, shook her head. “Ah,la pauvre. She’s been like this since she woke up. Last night, too. She misses her walk.”
For most of her life, ever since her parents realized that she was not going to be a normal child, Miss Bernadine had been kept in her room. Her infrequent transits elsewhere had proved difficult, as she balked at stairs.
Miss Charlotte, always willing to try new things, asked Mrs. Watson to put Miss Bernadine in a ground-floor room when Mrs.Watson moved her household to Paris this past February. Without the obstacle of the stairs, Miss Bernadine proved perfectly amenable to walking outside her room for some time every day. After they’d made a ramp with wooden planks, she even went into the garden, where she’d sit contentedly for a while, cranking a reel that had been detached from a fishing rod.
But now she was confined indefinitely to her room.
Miss Bernadine grunted a few times and once again set all the spools to spin, rows upon rows of agitation.
Her appetite, according to Mademoiselle Robineau, was still not good, but no worse than it had been since the mercenaries took over. This was the best news Penelope could report to London: that things hadn’t taken a drastic turn for the worse.
She asked after Mademoiselle Robineau herself. The nurse waved off her concern. “Don’t you worry about me, mademoiselle. I lived through the Siege of Paris. A few criminals don’t scare me.”
The other members of the staff, she said, were also carrying on as best as they could, including Mr. Mears, a captive in his own room.
A knock came. “That’s long enough,” said the woman mercenary.
