"Then why did you not kill Montrichard instead of the duc?"
"I remind you, 'Oare, I killed no one. I was angry at the duc, yes. But not a tuer, mon ami, not angry to kill. I merely protested a decision that I had not expected and did not deserve.
"Why, I had even begun conversations with Marciello, that dancing master of a man, to sell him my academy so that my wife could live decently while I was at sea in Vendee. Now, here I am, immured, without a ship, without my liberty. It is too much, 'Oare, too much. My poor wife…" De Barsac stared vacantly at the wet stone wall a mere four feet from his nose.
"Keep up your spirits, man," Hoare whispered, though he had no tangible support to offer the prisoner.
As he left the lockup, someone pulled at his cloak. The face beneath the shawl, tight-clutched against the cold, was no lady's; her complexion was too coarse. But she looked respectable, so Hoare did not pull free. She might be a lady's maid.
"Zur, zur!" she exclaimed.
"Yes?"
"Would you be Mr. 'Oare, zur?" She blushed. Hoare was long resigned to seeing blushes on young women's faces the first time they used his name. At least they seldom snickered, as did some men who did not know that, while Bartholomew Hoare had yet to kill his man, he had yet to miss whatever part of an opponent he chose for target.
"The same," he whispered, and waited. She gave a little bob.
"I be Molly, zur, Madame de Barsac's maid." The girl spoke with a strong Dorset buzz.
"Yes, Molly?"
"Ma'am wonders, zur, if you'd kindly step by and zee 'er for a moment or two?"
"Lead the way, Molly," Hoare said, though he needed no guide to this destination.
He followed close on her heels to a decent but shabby building. The sign at the door read:
MARC-ANTOINE DE CHATILLON DE BARSAC
MAITRE D'ESCRIME
ENGLISH SPOKEN
ENQUIRE ABOVE
Molly led him down an alley behind the school, into a rear doorway and up two flights of stairs. Here she opened an inner door and bobbed again for him to precede her.
"Mr. 'Oare, mum," she whispered, and blushed again.
Her hand outstretched, her mistress advanced to greet him. A woman-shaped woman, she would be a few years younger than her husband or Hoare.
"Madame la Vicomtesse," Hoare whispered as he made his leg and bent over the hand. Actually to kiss it would have been unduly suggestive.
"So kind of you, Mr. 'Oare," she said in French. "My husband has spoken of you often."
"I am told he has been taken up in connection with the sad death of the Duc de Provins," Hoare said.
"Which is why I told Molly to find you and beg you to wait on me. He had nothing to do with it, of course."
"Of course. But the town authorities believe otherwise, and one can hardly blame them. After all, he is known to have quarreled with the duc, and his broken sword was the murder weapon."
"Anyone, monsieur," she said, "could have filched a broken sword from our salon. Marc-Antoine collects them in a corner. I record them and then sell them to Tompkins the cutler, for we cannot afford weapons of a quality high enough to be worth repair."
"How often is a weapon broken?"
"Perhaps two a week. There are some awkward pupils who break one almost every lesson. They are hopeless, and I charge them extra for the breakage."
"Then you keep the books for your husband?"
The vicomtesse nodded.
A notion tiptoed reluctantly into Hoare's mind. "Could the Comtesse de Montrichard have acquired one of the broken swords?" he asked.
"Why yes, I suppose she could. She sometimes accompanied the duc, especially if he wanted to display his proficiency by taking up a blade himself."
"She would come with her husband, I presume?"
"Hardly, monsieur. That would have been gauche in the extreme, would it not?"
"And about yesterday's quarrel between the duc and your husband?"
"It was hardly a quarrel," she said. "Provins took Marc-Antoine aside and told him that instead of giving command of Vendee to him he must give it to Montrichard. My husband had been counting on obtaining the post; it had become a matter of honor as well as the pocketbook. He protested, too vehemently, perhaps. The duc turned on his heel and left the salon, followed, of course, by his attendant."
"Who was… "
"The comtesse." Her eyes opened wide. "Why, the comte was there as well. How louche! Yes, I remember now. Montrichard was already practicing when the duc arrived, before the mirror, of course, being the sort of person he is."
"So, madame, any of four people could have taken away the broken sword."
"Four, monsieur?"
"Yes. The Comte de Montrichard, his comtesse, your husband… or you."
"Monsieur!" Her lip curled. For a moment Hoare feared she would order him to the door, but then she laughed. "Yes, I too, I suppose, although you are not to know I can hardly tell which end of the weapon to hold. But then you must add to your list of suspects every pupil of my husband, past or present."
Hoare shuddered at the thought and dismissed it.
"Well, madame la vicomtesse, I have now spoken with you, your husband and the Comtesse de Montrichard. It remains for me to question the comte." Having run out of breath, Hoare merely raised his eyebrows hopefully. She caught his meaning.
"He keeps chambers at The Lilies in Dover Street, I believe," she said. "I hope you will be able to establish my husband's innocence, monsieur. Strange though it may seem, our children and I love him."
"I share your hope, madame." With that Hoare prepared to take his leave, leaving unspoken his fear that powerful evidence indeed would be needed if De Barsac were to depart the Portsmouth bridewell unhanged.
"Un moment, monsieur," said the vicomtesse. She disappeared into an adjoining room, returning with a paper in her hand. "As I told you, I handle my husband's business affairs. Here is the commission Provins gave him, days ago. Perhaps you will believe me."
"It is not I who must be convinced, madame, but an English jury. May I take this with me?"