Spectacle(93)

Nathalie hesitated. She’d said attack to get everyone’s attention. “Not attack. She threatened me. I was praying and when I sat back I found a box with two jars, one with blood and one without and both had notes in them and…”

Her stomach churned. She suddenly felt off balance and steadied herself on the policeman’s shoulder.

“Where are these … jars?”

Nathalie stepped back from him with a scowl. “In the cathedral! Do you think I tucked them away neatly in my pocket before chasing her?”

The policeman’s brow arched upward.

“We can get them later.” Nathalie put her hands on her hips. “That woman in the black dress. We need to go after her! NOW.”

“Mademoiselle, you need to compose yourself.” He held up his palm. “Did you see her place this box?”

“Non. But it couldn’t have been anyone else.”

“Did she touch you in any way or speak to you?”

“Non. Listen, she was the Dark Artist’s lover—and partner!”

The policeman cocked his head. “How do you know that?”

“I do. Never mind how.” She gestured toward the tram route. “We’re wasting time!”

“Mademoiselle, she could be any number of places by now, and I suggest you file a report. We don’t have the manpower, and—”

Flames shot up to Nathalie’s face. “Idiot!”

She stormed away from him and went back to Notre-Dame, entering through one of the side doors. An older man with a formal coat was at the pew, holding the box and inspecting the area. An usher, she guessed.

“Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur.”

He turned to her, eyes wide. As if she were an apparition instead of a girl. “I was at the front of the church when you ran after someone. What happened? What—what are these?” He lifted the lid to indicate the jars.

She explained what took place, as absurd as it was. His face was stoic, but under the mask she detected an undulating disquiet. He handed her the box, seemingly grateful to get rid of it, and offered to accompany her to the morgue. She didn’t feel safe going alone—would she ever feel safe again?—and accepted.

They hastened out of Notre-Dame as the bells pealed, and the gentleman walked her to the front door of the morgue. She thanked him, annoyed a few people by lightly pushing them to get inside, and waved frantically at Christophe.

Minutes later they sat in his office and, for the second time in as many hours, she told him what happened. “Here’s the … the box with the bottles.” She pulled it out of her bag and placed it in the center of his desk.

He opened it up and examined the contents, including the notes in both.

“Why would she do this—and why to me? Because of my blood, like the Dark Artist wanted in the Catacombs?” said Nathalie, voice cracking in distress.

“It—it would seem so. But of course I don’t know.” Christophe covered his eyes with his palms. “Nothing about this makes sense. Including how she knew where you were.”

“I assumed she followed Simone and me … and then just me.”

He shook his head. “By the time the police arrived, she’d vacated the apartment. The notebooks, gloves, some of the jars, clothing. Even the photo you mentioned. She couldn’t have done that and followed you. We’re watching the apartment to see if she returns, but this helps explain the lack of chemistry equipment. She likely has another place or is staying with someone.”

“What kind of someone?”

“Family member, friend. The Dark Artist’s killer for all we know.” He let out a sigh. “We simply don’t know enough about her yet.”

“Only enough to know that she’s crazy and revolting and preoccupied with blood.”

“Nathalie, I’ve said this before—too many times this summer, unfortunately—but I’m sorry you’re under such duress.” He pushed the box of jars to the side and patted her hand. “I wish I could take these wicked events away from you.”

Even-tempered, sensible Christophe, who always made her feel safe. Where would she be without him? She thanked him and patted his hand in return. He was a colorful sprout among black, jagged rocks this summer.

He withdrew his hand and smiled. “I’m sure it’s dark by now, or will be soon. Shall I walk you home?”

“It’s more than a walk. It’s an omnibus or tram ride away.” She told him the area in which she lived. “Where do you call home?”

“Also the eleventh arrondissement,” he said.

“I—I can’t believe our paths haven’t crossed before.”

“It’s, uh, somewhat recent.”

“Oh?” And as soon as she uttered it, she regretted it, that little too-inquisitive “oh.”

“The woman I intend to marry, her family lives in that area. It’s a surprise for their return from America next month.”

Nathalie cast her eyes to the floor. “Thank you for the offer, but I do believe I can make my way home well enough. I’ll … hire a carriage.”

He stepped two paces back and stared at her. “Are you … envious?”

She hoped he didn’t see the heat race up her neck and settle into her face.