The Adventuress by Carole Nelson Douglas

days ago. We would speak with you.”
    “No!”
    “Madame, please, I beg you. We wish to offer our sympathies. We were quite taken with Louise—”
    “Go away, can’t you? I’ve had enough talk, enough questions!”
    “Madame—”
    Godfrey intercepted Irene’s gloved hand before it could knock again and shook his head.
    I shook mine as well. These two, master and mistress of courtroom and stage, had no notion of how to approach a sulking individual, especially one considered a likely murderess. Such a person must be firmly led. I neared the door and mustered my best French.
    “Madame. It is possible that you yourself have slain your niece, in which case I can understand why you would not wish to see anyone. It is also possible that Louise’s death was a terrible accident, in which case you would wish to know how kindly she spoke of you, only days past.”
    A long silence.
    Then a lock turned, a hinge groaned, and the massive wooden door swung inward. Shrinking behind it was a tiny woman with burnt-orange hair and a face the color of fresh snow. Pierre’s candelabrum blazed into eyes as dull as blueberries, sunk into maroon circles of skin. I had seen women painted in such lurid colors on posters around Paris, although Madame Montpensier’s hues were the shades of deep distress, not of fevered gaiety.
    Irene swept through the opening. Godfrey’s prompt hand on my elbow urged me forward. I saw him bow sardonic thanks to Pierre before he firmly shut the chamber door upon us all and pointedly slammed the latch home.
    This room was vast and chilly also, save for the fire in the grate. I heard a scratching sound and looked down to see a fat little spaniel waddling over to sniff our boots.
    “It is—was—Louise’s.” Madame Montpensier bent to lift the creature.
    No one in his right mind could question the ravages of emotion that had turned her face—undoubtedly once beautiful—into a gargoyle of grief. I looked at Godfrey and Irene. They, too, seemed thunderstruck by the woman’s appearance.
    “Hush, Chou-chou,” Madame Montpensier chided the whimpering dog. “He knows something is amiss. But why have you come? How have you heard... What have you heard? That I—?”
    “Please.” Godfrey took the wriggling dog in one arm and guided Madame Montpensier to the high-backed chair that faced the fire. “Sit down. Perhaps you can enlighten us on how this terrible thing has happened to Louise. And to yourself.”
    She glanced up sharply. Godfrey Norton “leading” a witness, that is, posing questions that demand answers, was a phenomenon that even a statue would have had difficulty in resisting. I had seen him robed and bewigged in the Royal Courts of Justice on Fleet Street, his barrister’s face assuming an innocent concern, a profound understanding, that surpassed all suspicion. At such times, even a murderess might forget herself and confess all.
    Madame Montpensier drew herself up as if recognizing this quality. She looked at Irene and then at me, wonderingly. “It is kind of you to take an interest in our affairs.”
    “It is nothing of the sort,” Irene said quickly. “We, after all, feel responsible for having returned Louise to a situation that has led to her ‘apparent’ loss of life. And it is indeed our business, in a way. We are”—she glanced roguishly at Godfrey and myself—“experienced inquiry agents into matters criminal and, occasionally, merely puzzling. We wish to see justice done.”
    The poor woman eyed me uncertainly.
    Irene continued. “Miss, ah, Mademoiselle Huxleigh is our valued friend and assistant. There is obviously more to this matter than even the Paris police suspect, Madame. I think you can tell us something more of it than you have hitherto revealed.”
    The woman shrank into the chair while we gathered around, our backs to the fire and basking in the fact. Godfrey gently deposited the small spaniel in her lap.
    She absently stroked the creature’s silky ears