The Viscount's Son (The Viscount's Son Trilogy Book 1) Page 5

  Susan looked exactly as she had in the magazine. Even with all the makeup, she was a natural beauty. Porcelain skin, raven hair, all the right curves. She wore a classic fifties style dress, white with a red floral print. A thin belt showed off her slim waist and a well proportioned bust. He swallowed, muttered “thank you” and stepped inside.

  “Can I take your coat? It’s too bloody warm in here. My father insists on having all the heating on. Refuses to admit he’s getting old,” she whispered.

  “I see,” Michael replied, not really seeing, but wanting to be polite and not say anything stupid like he normally did when in the presence of attractive women.

  “So, can I?” she asked. “I’m sorry, can you what?”

  “Take your coat?” She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.

  “Of course, my coat. Yes, please.” Michael took it off and handed it to his host, wishing again that he wasn’t such a natural-born dullard.

  She put the coat in a closet then stepped into the hall. “Please follow me. My father is waiting in the library.”

  Michael obliged, marvelling at the mix of old treasures decorating the place – portraits mostly. Susan’s perfume wafted behind her as she walked; a light floral scent that made him think of spring. He liked it.

  “Father has not taken my sister’s disappearance well.” “Understandable,” Michael said. “It would be difficult for any parent.” “Yes, but he is often reluctant to talk about it, you see.”

  “Are you sure he wants me to get involved?”

  Susan slumped a little, distorting the perfect line of her shoulders. “It was my idea to hire you.”

  “I see.” Michael looked to the marbled floor.

  “I heard about you through a friend.” Susan reached out and touched his arm. “A Catholic friend.”

  Michael’s face warmed. So, she knew about that. “Well, let’s meet your father.”

  “Daddy, this is Michael D’Angelo. Michael, this is my father – Ted.”

  The earl wore typical old British tweed and a frown. The same one he’d worn in the magazine. He would have been handsome, in his youth, but age now lined his face.

  Michael stepped forward and held out his hand. A pause stalled them, just long enough to make Michael feel even more awkward, before the earl finally took his hand.

  “My daughter tells me you are a priest.”

  “Ex-priest.” So, they’d got to that already. The English were so blatant in their distaste of Catholics.

  “Oh?” The earl put a hand in his pocket. “Ah, yes. I left the church five years ago.”

  The earl looked him over with a flick of his eyes. Was it satisfaction or disdain on his face?

  “Your name, it is Italian.”

  “My father was Italian. My mother, Irish.”

  “Hmph. Little wonder you became a priest.”

  Susan laughed, a little forcefully. “Now, Daddy, we didn’t invite Michael here to interrogate him. Shall we sit?” She gestured to the leather couch and they both sat. The earl remained standing by the window.

  Portraits and shelves of books lined the library from floor to ceiling. A lazy fire burned in the fireplace, adding its warmth to the central heating. Michael pulled at his collar, glad that Susan had taken his coat.

  “Well, Daddy, shall you tell it or I?”

  The earl’s mouth drooped a little more; he turned to look out the window.

  Susan sighed. “My little sister, Emma, was a conservator, and a good one. She had a situation at the Louvre in Paris.”

  The earl tutted.

  Susan looked at his back, frowning a little and continued. “Daddy didn’t want her to take the position.”

  “She had a perfectly good job at the British Museum,” the earl interrupted.

  Susan smiled. “Em was enamoured by France. She loved everything about it – the food, the language, the culture.”

  “Pity about the bloody people.”

  “Daddy, please! We don’t want to waste Michael’s time. Now let me tell him so he can help us.”

  The earl sniffed, straightening his shoulders.

  “Just over a year ago, Emma disappeared.” Susan’s voice wavered. “The police in Paris investigated for a month, then retired the case. Their evidence ran cold.”

  “Their funding more like.”

  Susan pursed her lips and gave her father a stare like a parent waiting patiently for a tantrum to finish.

  “Their evidence?” Michael asked.

  “She was seeing a man called Nathaniel Chartley. She didn’t mention him to us, we knew nothing about him. She had a good friend in Paris, Anais, who knew of him, but very little.”

  “You suspect him of – something?” Michael adjusted his glasses. It seemed more and more to him that the family should hire a private investigator to deal with this. He would hear the rest of the story then delicately suggest it.

  Susan looked down at her hands curled in her lap. “My sister has always been a quiet girl. As a child, she was happiest playing by herself, or reading. We used to holiday with our cousins – I’d love that, having more children to play with and boss around.”

  Susan looked up and smiled, but her eyes were glossy and pink. “But Em was always sneaking off somewhere. We’d find her in the tree house with her nose stuck in a book, more often than not. She’s grown into an independent woman now of course. She loves a good time with friends and family, don’t get me wrong. But there’s still something fragile about Em. Daddy and I have always looked out for her, especially since mother passed away. That was eight years ago. Emma was twenty then, still studying. She took it hard.” Susan wiped an eye with a finger, smearing a thin line of mascara.

  Michael glanced at the earl. His shoulders were slouched now.

  “She was a good girl. Sensible,” Susan continued, “but prone to dreaming. Perhaps her curiosity got the better of her. The police found her computer and discovered a strange blog.”

  Michael squirmed. The case intrigued him, but he still failed to see how he could help.

  “The blog detailed a secret quest she had embarked on. She’d come across an old artefact – a sixteenth century journal. One of her co-workers at the museum said it was a fake, but Emma decided to investigate for herself. For some strange reason she set up an anonymous blog to tell of her findings. As she translated the journal, the blog became more personal.”

  “She wrote about her life?”

  Susan nodded. “She changed the names of the people she worked with, but she didn’t change her own name. It sounds strange, I know, but I am not surprised. Emma loves a good story, especially a mystery. I think she thought it was a bit of fun.”

  “And you think the blog and the old diary are connected to her disappearance?” “Yes. You see in the blog she claimed the diary was not a fake. It was a genuine sixteenth century manuscript. And the man she was seeing, Nathaniel – well,” Susan looked up, “he was the man who wrote the diary.”

  Michael frowned. There was no smile on Susan’s face now. “But that’s impossible.”

  “We know.” The earl turned from the window to look at them. “Show him, Susan. Everything he needs to know.” He looked Michael in the eye. “Find out what kind of monster he is, and bring my daughter back to us.” The earl nodded, then marched out, leaving Susan and Michael alone.

  Chapter Two

  Extract from Emma’s blog — The Viscount’s Son (First Entry)

  My name is Emma. I work at a very large and famous museum, in a city that is also large and famous. My job entails the conservation, restoration and translation of ancient Latin texts. I’m a book conservator. This may sound as interesting as watching the man who is scrubbing the smog off the workshop window as I write, however, writing about my job, while it will be necessary at times, is not the purpose of this blog.

  So I come to the purpose – I wish to translate a book …

  * * *

  Michael sat on the hard wooden seat in the foyer of the
Police Judiciaire de Paris. He flipped through Emma’s blog entries on his tablet as he waited. The police had accessed the blog during their investigation and made it private, but Susan had asked them not to take it down. Susan provided him with the password and sent him an offline version of the blog along with other documents detailing all the evidence. There wasn’t a lot.

  Emma Farleigh disappeared after becoming romantically involved with a man called Nathaniel Chartley. In her blog, she revealed Nathaniel was the same man who had written the sixteenth century diary she’d translated. It was impossible of course. And that’s why Michael had to take the case.

  “Find out what kind of monster he is,” the earl had said. But what was Nathaniel? Michael didn’t jump to conclusions. There was every chance Nathaniel didn’t even exist. But Michael had encountered a number of extraordinary things in his life, particularly in his short career as a P.I. He had ‘P.I.’ printed on his business cards. People thought it stood for ‘Private Investigator’, but he used ‘Private’ and ‘Paranormal’ interchangeably, depending on whom he was speaking with. Most people denied the existence of ghosts and gremlins, and Michael understood why. He often wished he could deny them too.

  Vampire.

  That word frequented his thoughts now. Hardly surprising given the content of Emma’s blog. He didn’t deny their existence, he didn’t deny anything, but he’d never had a case that dealt with them. He’d never even heard of them outside the stories that recurred in popular culture. Although something tugged at his memory.

  “Monsieur D’Angelo?”

  Michael snapped his tablet cover shut and looked up to see a middle-aged policewoman – slim, with a stony-faced look, and dark hair pulled back in a tight bun.

  “Ah, bonjour, Madame. Je suis ici pour voir Inspecteur Roulier.” Michael stood as he summoned his best French; so far it had enabled him to order a hotel room and warm meals, but the Parisians seemed less than impressed. If only the case had taken him to Rome. His Italian was near perfect.

  “Inspecteur Roulier is busy,” she replied in flawless English. “I am Detective Schleck. I assisted the Inspecteur on the Emma Farleigh case.” She glanced at her watch. “Please follow me.”

  “Ah, merci beaucoup.” Michael had to walk double time to keep up with Detective Schleck. The sound of her square heels rang through the high halls of the police headquarters. Michael noted other officers turning to glimpse at her before moving subtly out of her way.

  Finally, she came to a glass door and opened it. “Entrez,” she said, and Michael stepped into the small office.

  Schleck sat down at her desk and gestured for Michael to sit opposite. “Monsieur Farleigh tells me you were a priest.”

  Michael adjusted his glasses. There it was again. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And you’re a PI now.”

  “Of a sort.” Was he being interrogated? “Why did you leave the priesthood?”

  Michael blinked. It was the first time anyone had asked him outright. He didn’t want to answer and didn’t have to as the door opened and a young officer entered; a solid woman with messy blonde hair and a crumpled uniform. She handed a file to Schleck and turned to Michael, smiling.

  “You are investigating the Farleigh Case, non?” Slightly out of breath, her voice and rosy cheeks conveyed heightened enthusiasm. The officer’s hair was even messier from the front, and a sprinkling of crumbs adorned her shirt.

  Michael nodded. “I am here on behalf of the family to—”

  “C’est tout, Georgette. Merci,” Schleck commanded, then snapped open the file and jotted a note.

  Georgette scratched her hair, shrugged her shoulders at Michael and left the office.

  Schleck looked up, her grey eyes assessing him from under two perfectly manicured eyebrows. “So, you left the priesthood because—?”

  “Ah – I left for personal reasons.”

  Awkward silence filled the office as Schleck finished writing in the file. “I see,” she muttered. “I myself am Catholic.”

  “Oh,” Michael managed.

  “So, you have questions?” She put the pen down and leaned back in her chair, looking at him with one of those perfect eyebrows arched.

  Michael cleared his throat. “Well, as you know I am here on behalf of the Farleighs to investigate what happened to Emma. I was wondering if you would tell me what you found.”

  “We sent the Farleighs a summary of the evidence.”

  “Yes, and they have passed it on to me. I wondered why you stopped investigating after just a month.”

  Schleck pursed her lips. “Inspecteur Roulier is a genius with his work. I am efficient. I work our team hard and smart, Monsieur.”

  Michael believed her. The small office was neat and ordered, not one paper dared to shift out of place. Two filing cabinets stood to attention against one wall, a couple of shelves along another with journals and books, upright and perfectly aligned. Not a speck of dust to be seen. Only her coffee cup upset the balance – a hint of red lipstick had smeared near the rim.

  “We collected all the evidence by the end of the first week. Every stone was upturned I can assure you. But the case ran cold. There was nothing more we could do. It seems Mademoiselle Farleigh eluded us all.”

  “You think she has – run away?”

  Schleck plucked a tissue from a box on her desk and wiped the lipstick smudge off her cup. “That was our conclusion. She was a smart young woman. We believe she may have orchestrated her own disappearance.” She threw the tissue in the empty waste paper basket and returned her attention to Michael.

  “But why would she do that?”

  Schleck pursed her lips again. “Perhaps her family put pressure on her to return. Her father was angry that she had been working in Paris at all.”

  Michael frowned. He’d detected the earl’s displeasure about Emma’s living in Paris, but was that enough to make Emma run away? “And, the file you gave to the Farleighs, it is comprehensive?”

  Schleck blinked and looked to the side. “It is everything we can share, yes. We are confident in our conclusion of this case, Monsieur.” She locked eyes with him again. “Emma Farleigh wanted to disappear. She was living an imaginary life and she left

  to pursue a fairytale world that she had dreamt up. It may be that she had a psychiatric illness. We have posted several alerts to authorities, including hospitals, throughout the country. If she is still in France there is a strong possibility that she will re-appear somewhere.” She looked at her watch. “Now, if you have no more questions …”

  “Of course.” Michael stood. “Thank you for your time, Madame.”

  He walked back through the echoing corridor, wondering what it was Schleck hadn’t told him.

  Chapter Three

  Excerpt from Michael D’Angelo’s case notes

  Tuesday 18th November

  Met with Detective Schleck today. She wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, not that I expected a comedian. I wish Inspector Roulier had been available. Perhaps he’d be more forthcoming. Schleck added no further information to what I have already gleaned from the summary of evidence. But I can’t help feeling she withheld something.

  Tomorrow I will meet with two of Emma’s work colleagues – John, a fellow Englishman, and Anais, a French native who has worked in the States. In the blog Emma called them ‘Jack’ and ‘Amelie’. Hopefully they can reveal something more than what’s in the police notes.

  NB – I keep thinking about vampires. Obvious, considering Emma’s blog. But, I’m sure I came across some pearl of wisdom about them years ago. Perhaps I should contact Patrick at the Athenaeum. He was one of the few who didn’t judge me, and his knowledge of demonology was good.

  * * *

  There were few tourists entering the Louvre, and Michael was grateful for that. It would have been more difficult for John to find him during peak season. The glass panes of the Louvre’s famous pyramid reflected the steel sky above. Michael squinted, wondering if it was
possible to count them to confirm or deny the urban legend that it contained exactly 666 panels. A cool breeze tousled his hair and he rubbed his gloved hands together.

  “Monsieur D’Angelo?”

  Michael turned and a bearded man with dark hair approached. “Oui.”

  “John.” The man extended his hand and Michael shook it.

  “Thank you for meeting me.”

  John shrugged as he unbuttoned a shirt pocket, extracting a packet of cigarettes. “I’d like to help.” He lit a smoke and exhaled.

  Michael tried not to cough.

  “Emma’s a good girl. Innocent.” John shook his head. “If only she’d told me.” His accent revealed his heritage – English, from the north.

  Michael adjusted his glasses. “Told you?”

  John took another puff, nodding. “The whole translation business. The blog. I’da talked her outta it.”

  “Perhaps that’s why she didn’t tell you.”

  John finished his cigarette as he led Michael through the few ambling tourists, under the glass pyramid and down stairs, through halls and up stairs until they came to a room with two small windows and shelves, floor to ceiling, filled with books, boxes and crates. Along the window sat two desks both messy with files, old coffee cups and stationery, but one notably more chaotic than the other. John pulled up the desk chairs.

  “Have a seat.”

  “This is Emma’s office, too?”

  John pointed to the slightly more ordered desk. “That’s hers. Still no replacement for her.” He ran a hand through his dark hair and leaned back on the chair. “My work’s doubled since all this.”

  “Tell me about Emma’s work.”

  “Emma and I are conservators; we work with old books mostly.”

  “They have books in the Louvre?” Michael looked up; he was pretty sure the Louvre galleries sat above them somewhere.

  “No. They shove us here so we can use the expensive lab.” He nodded to a door between the bulging shelves. “The Louvre has connections with other museums, galleries and universities throughout the world. So our efforts can end up anywhere.” He scratched his beard. “It’s not a bad place to work. Gets annoying in peak tourist season though.”