Page 32 of The Assassin and the Libertine
The drawers were all empty. I went to the small writing desk to see if she’d left any papers or letters.
“No?” Étienne asked in an incredulous tone, and did I detect a hint of disappointment?
“Well, yes, actually. When you were here with Brigitte?—”
He cut me off with a laugh.
“Oh no, Daphne. I didn’t comeherefor her. I sent for her. She came to me. I wouldn’t feed or…do anything else here. Certainly not in Josephine’s home.”
“What else do you know of her? Did you converse at all? Were there other clues to her identity or anything?” I felt the underside and the back panels of the writing desk.Nothing.
“We didn’t speak much,” he said. “We had other things to do.”
My exasperation grew. Étienne smirked at me. Peevishly, I went to the small bed and felt around the sheets and pillow.Still nothing.
I swore. This was proving to be another dead end.
“Can you give me nothing that would help? This woman tried to kill you, Étienne. I’d think you’d be a little more interested in finding out more about her,” I muttered.
He sat on the bed, thwarting my search of the sheets and blankets.
“Very well. She was blonde, her name was Brigitte, and she tasted strange,” he said unhelpfully.
“That’ll be the quicksilver, I wager. And she didn’t say anything else? Nothing seemingly innocuous about a previous customer?”
“Daphne, there’s nothing here. My interactions with her were minimal and professional. She obviously didn’t live here long enough to leave anything behind.”
“Get up,” I said with a spark of inspiration. “Get off the bed. I want to check something.”
He sighed and stood. I hefted the lumpy straw mattress off the bed frame.
“You’re really not going to ask me anything about Josephine? About this place?”
My annoyance finally won out.
“Étienne, if you wish to tell me about your past—your father, your sisters, your turning, this home for wayward women—please do so. However, I will not pry. I believe in what Josephine said. One should be free from the shackles of one’s past, if given the chance. My only interest right now is in the truth—in this woman Brigitte and her vendetta against you, in Jeanne’s killer, and in the blood plague devastating our city. So, if asking you questions you do not wish to answer will only derail me with falsehoods, then I will not waste time for either of us.”
Ignoring his piercing gaze, I studied the bottom of the mattress. There, in the lower corner was a small seam that did not belong. A three-inch long tear that had been hastily stitched back together. Hands shaking in near triumph, I took out my dagger and slit it open.
A small, black leather pouch fell out and landed on the floor.
Étienne picked it up and sniffed it.
“It’s him,” he said, stunned. “It smells of Jeanne’s killer.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ÉTIENNE
October 19, 1765
Maison des Nymphes
Daphne tookthe pouch from me and opened it with the excitement of a child opening a present. She removed a small glass vial and two squares of parchment. She passed me the vial and, as expected, there were minuscule droplets of quicksilver sliding around inside.
“Drink two hours prior to bleeding,says the first one. Instructions from someone. The handwriting doesn’t seem familiar to me. Do you know it?” she asked.
I shook my head. Thick, black script ran jaggedly across the paper. It was either an ill-educated hand, or an educated hand trying to disguise itself.
