'I do but there was no need for you to bring them. A courier could have been sent. That is how Ambrose kept in touch with me. By courier.' She stared up at him. 'Why come in person?'
'Because I hoped to break the news as gently as I could.'
'Was that the only reason?'
'No, I wanted to meet you.'
'Why?'
'I need your help, mademoiselle.'
'What can I do?'
'Tell me about Sir Ambrose,' he explained. 'I owe him a great debt and it can only be repaid by tracking down the man who killed him. I have dedicated myself to that task.'
'That is very noble of you, monsieur.'
'His death must be avenged.'
'Oh, yes!' she exclaimed. 'The murderer cannot go unpunished. He must be caught quickly. Do you know who he is?'
'No, mademoiselle.'
'But you have some idea?'
'I feel that I am getting closer all the time,' he said with a measure of confidence. 'The trail led to Paris.'
'Why here?'
'That is what I am hoping you can tell me.'
'But this was where Ambrose came to escape. To be with me.'
'When did you last see him?'
'Let me see ...'
Christopher plied her with questions for a long time and she gave ready answers but none of them contained any clues as to why Sir Ambrose was murdered and by whom. Marie Louise Oilier had been kept largely ignorant of his business affairs and he had told her nothing whatsoever about the true nature of his domestic situation. Time spent together had been limited, taken up for the most part with discussions about the new house and its furnishings. She made flattering comments about his design and Christopher realised that some of his earlier drawings of the house must have been shown to her. The man she described was very different from the confirmed rake who sought pleasure in the company of men such as Henry Redmayne.
As he listened to her fond reminiscences, Christopher was left in no doubt about the fact that she truly loved him and he could understand very clearly why Sir Ambrose had been besotted with her. Now that he was so close to her, he could see that she was perhaps a few years older than Penelope Northcott but she had a childlike charm which made her seem much younger.
Having described her own history, she asked him about his memories of Sir Ambrose. Christopher searched for positive things to say about the man, concealing anything which might strike a discordant note. It was only when she gave a slight shiver that he realised something was amiss.
Marie Louise Oilier was sitting in the chair closest to the open shutters and an evening breeze was disturbing her headdress. When there were more comfortable chairs in the room, it seemed odd that her uncle should conduct her to that one. The library looked out on the garden at the rear of the house and it suddenly occurred to Christopher that anyone standing outside could eavesdrop on them with ease. He was about to stand up and investigate when she reached out to grab his arm.
'Will you send word to me, monsieur?' she begged.
'Word?'
'When you catch the man who killed him, please let me know.'
'I will,'
'Send word to this address.'
'Even though you do not live here?'
'It will reach me.'
'Would it not be easier if I had your own address?'
'No, monsieur.'
'Is your own house nearby?'
'Send word here.'
Christopher detached her hand and got up to cross to the window. When he glanced out into the garden, he could see nobody but he still had the uncomfortable feeling that they had been overheard.
'Evening is drawing in,' he announced. 'I must away.'
'Will you not stay the night in Paris?'
'No, mademoiselle. It is a long ride. I would like to put a few miles between myself and the city tonight.'
'I understand. Wait here while I call my uncle.'
She moved to the door and let herself out, leaving the room still inhabited with her presence and charged with her fragrance. Christopher had a moment to compose himself. Though he had not been given the valuable clues he sought, he had discovered much that would be useful once he had sifted carefully through it. Yet he was still left with many imponderables. Before Christopher could rehearse them, Bastiat came into the room on his own. There was concern in his voice.
'My niece tells me that you are leaving, monsieur.'
'I fear that I must.'
'You are most welcome to spend the night here as my guest.'
'That is very tempting, Monsieur Bastiat, but I must begin the homeward journey tonight.'
'Are you sure?'
'I have no choice.'
'Where will you stay?' 'There is an inn which I passed on the way here,' said Christopher. 'It must be ten or twelve miles along the road to Beauvais. I will lodge there and make an early start in the morning.'
'Very well. I can see that there is no point in trying to persuade you against your will.'
'None at all.'
'You are a determined young man, Monsieur Redmayne.'
'Of necessity.'
'Why?'
'You niece will explain.'
'Then I bid you adieu.'
He conducted his visitor out into the hall and opened the front door for him. Christopher looked around in disappointment.
'I would like to take my leave of Mademoiselle Oilier.'
'That will not be possible, monsieur.'
'Why not?'
'She is deeply upset by the terrible news which you brought. In your presence, she held up bravely but it has taken its toll. She wishes to be alone with her grief now.' He hunched his shoulders. 'There is darkness in her heart. It would be a cruelty to intrude.'
'Say no more, monsieur. I understand.'
'It was good of you to come all this way.'
'I felt that it was an obligation.'
'An obligation?'
'Nobody else would have come here.'
'You deserve our thanks,' said the other. 'My niece did not need to tell me why you travelled to Paris. I saw it in her face. Poor creature! She is suffering badly.' He touched his guest's shoulder. 'I hope your journey will not be too onerous. Do you sail from Calais?'
'Yes, Monsieur Bastiat.'
'You will have much to reflect upon, I suspect.'
'Oh, yes,' said Christopher warmly. 'I did not simply come on an errand of mercy. I was in search of guidance.'
'Indeed?'
