Chapter 83: Codename: Aconite Chapter Thirty-Three
I pull into an impressively grand château just outside of Paris and drive around a grand fountain in the centre of the driveaway illuminated by small strobe lights that make the water glow and welcome you onto the property. It’s a stunning three-story estate with an incredible number of windows, each illuminated with an exterior light that gives the structure a warm cozy feel to an otherwise ostentatious piece of architecture. Eight large windows line the first story, then nine on the second and seven on the third. Definitely not the ideal location for mayhem and murder, but it is also far enough from a main road that you could scream for hours and never be heard.
Parking at the front entrance, I grab my purse and exit the car. Glancing around the property I see no signs of Silas’ car. He will likely park far from the house to ensure the car isn’t spotted, but I’m sure he’ll figure it out. He’s a big boy. With my bag secured over my shoulder, I make my way up the front steps and bang the large knocker three times. In no time at all the door is opening and I’m greeted by Haruspex himself.
Showtime.
“Mademoiselle Lefebre, I’m so glad you could make it,” he announces with a relieved look on his face, as he opens the door wide for me.
So far, so good.
I let myself in and take in the truly breathtaking interior, but mostly I observe all potential points of entry and exit should I need it.
“Your call this morning made the matter sound delicate in nature, Monsieur Delisle,” I say, interrupting my words with a cough as I feign attempting to clear my throat. “My apologies, I seem to be losing my voice.”
“I would be happy to make you some tea,” he says eagerly, no hints of suspicion on his face.
“Tea would be lovely, thank you. But first, talk me through what happened,” I instruct.
He nods. “Of course, right this way. I’ve not touched the scene to ensure I don’t tamper with any potential evidence,” he says, walking on ahead, guiding me through the house giving me a chance to take a better look at him.
He’s about 5’6” with thick, light brown hair with highlights, a lean build, tanned skin, and features that would have the average woman unsure if his face screams attractive, or serial killer, though I already know the answer. He’s wearing white slacks with a tucked-in skin-tight white t-shirt under a soft peach blazer complete with white Cole Haan loafers. He’s a dead ringer for James Crockett in Miami Vice. Maybe that’s what he was going for.
He leads me into a large parlour where the entire west-facing wall is lined with glass patio doors, one of which is wide open and has a shattered glass panel nearest the handle and broken glass scattering the ground.
“I don’t make it a habit of meeting clients at their homes,” I state, remembering Camille’s words from earlier.
“I understand. But as I mentioned, I can’t go to the police about this and I heard you were the best,” he says confidently, turning to face me with his hands in his pockets.
“Then start at the beginning.”
“I woke up at 3 am this morning–”
“Exactly 3 am?”
“Does it matter?” he asks in confusion.
“Every minute matters, so I’d like you to be as specific as possible,” I instruct.
“I believe the clock said 3:08.”
I nod. “Continue.”
“I woke up because I heard the sound of breaking glass. I rushed downstairs and saw a man in all black and a ski mask rushing out the patio door with my Roman vessel in his arms.”
“How do you know it was a man?”
He blinks in confusion. “Because it was?”
“It was the middle of the night, and they were in all black with their face covered. How can you be sure they were a man?” I ask pointedly as I continue to examine the room.
“They had the build of a man.”
“Could have just been a very muscular woman,” I counter.
He inhales deeply through his nose, and I can tell he’s getting frustrated. “I know what a man looks like, Miss Lefebre.”
“But as we have established, you didn’t actually see what they look like. So, if you want me to do my job properly, then presuming the assailant was male simply because of your perception of what male is, is not a reliable statement to go off of.”
“Very well,” he says indignantly.
“Tell me about this item.”
“It was a Roman vessel in impeccable condition. It dates back to the reign of Emperor Caracalla circa 210 AD. The handles were carved to represent the goddess Venus while the relief depicted Roman baths of the time. It’s a priceless artefact, one that had pride of place right here on my mantle,” he says, walking over and gesturing to an empty circle surrounded by dust on the mantle.
“How does someone stumble upon such a rare artefact?” I ask suspiciously.
“By paying a pretty penny for it.”
“On the black market, I presume,” I surmise.
“If you must know, yes. Which is why I’ve called on your help. The item is priceless in that it is irreplaceable, but what I paid for it, is worth more than this entire chateau, and I want it back. Now, can you help me or not?” he asks with a tone of irritation. Probably eager to kill me and be done with the pretence.
“I believe I can. If you don’t mind, I’d like to examine the scene a little more,” I politely request.
“Of course. I’ll go and get you that tea now,” he says with a kind smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that greatly,” I say graciously.
Once he exits the room I make my way around taking in every small detail. I’m surprised by how poorly the scene has been staged. If I can spot it, Camille would have had no problems, and no doubt would have become suspicious right away. He didn’t seem to care whether or not she put two and two together or not, which makes me wonder why bother establishing such an elaborate story in the first place. He could have just grabbed her the moment she – or I – entered the house and be done with it. Catch her by surprise and never have to bother with the performance. Unless, of course, the client made a specific request about her death that requires Haruspex to deviate from his usual modus operandi. I, myself, prefer poisons; doesn’t mean I always use them.