The snap of a fan caused Haidée to pause at the threshold of the store. But upon closer scrutiny, the proprietress did not appear to be talking to her. The aging woman in a low-cut green gown and a powdered wig decked with matching ribbons was fanning herself as she stared out the shop window at the retreating forms of Ducos and Galliard. The woman then turned her cheek slightly to observe her with an ill-concealed disdain.
“You must consider yourself lucky, Mademoiselle,” she said to Haidée, “to have caught the eye of the magistrate.”
Her lip curved in a wry smile. “And your point is?”
“He went to the Sorbonne,” the proprietress added. “He is a highly intelligent man and he knows he has his pick.”
“Hm. Well, if it eases the fear of this island’s young ladies, I am not on the menu. I’m Haidée Avenall—just a visitor, that is all.”
The shopkeeper clicked her fan closed and made a moue with her artificially reddened lips. Haidée mentally shook her head at the misuse of cosmetics. Had the woman never heard of the word subtle? “I am Georgette Beauchamp and I own this store. And what do you mean about not being on the menu? That sounds atrocious. Are you married?”
“Does it matter if I am?” she simply replied. Then she turned back to survey the story as Georgette made disapproving noises at the back of her throat.
The store itself was crammed with shelves of jarred and canned food. She saw no bread about and wondered if Ducos had gotten his elsewhere. And if that was the case—certainly, there was a bakery on this island as well. She perused the shelves, but as she turned a corner, she nearly bumped into a middle aged man in a worn gray jacket and a fraying black waistcoat bent over to read one of the can labels.
“Excuse me, Monsieur.”
The man straightened up and Haidée noticed that he wore a very strange tri-cornered hat and that his hair was a rapidly graying red. His rheumy blue eyes gave her a cursory glance before he turned his attention back to the cans. “Mademoiselle, what are you doing all the way back here? Surely, you should be back at the genteel atmosphere of the observatory. I cannot imagine an actress of your caliber coming all the way to a backwoods grocery shop.” His accent was odd and she couldn’t quite place it.
“You have the advantage of knowing me while I do not know you, Monsieur,” she replied. “Are you English?”
“My father was French and my mother half-Irish. I lived in Ireland until I was seventeen,” he responded. He tapped a finger to his chin and then took two of the cans. They were marked sardines. “And it is hard to miss an actress if she has come to a small island for a vacation. I saw you in a play when I once visited Paris. It was a play about a ghost and revenge, I think. I forget its name. You were still quite raw then, but it was obvious that you would be a rising star.”
“That play,” she said, “was very popular. But I did nothing but scream and faint in that one. The director did not trust me yet with any speaking roles.”
“My name is Seymour Davenport, Mademoiselle Avenall.” He held out his hand and she shook it, amused. The English and the Irish—for in her mind, they were all the same—had such strange notions for customs. “I work as the observatory’s librarian.”
“I have not seen you there although I think you were mentioned,” she replied.
“That’s because I live in the village like Paul Ninon. And I’m not surprised that the other astronomers have not mentioned me. I am not a scientist. I merely catalogue books and to them, that is as equivalent as a clerk. Not very important.”
“That is too bad,” she said. “Where would they be without anyone organizing their work?”
“Where indeed?” said Davenport. He picked up a jar of berry preserves on a nearby shelf. “You are touring the village, I take it?”
“Yes. I decided on taking advantage of my vacation.” She bit her lip thinking. “Although it hasn’t been quite what I expected so far.”
“Ah yes, the unfortunate matter.” He was scanning another shelf filled with tins and frowning. Haidée looked at the tins as well—they were all painted in flowers or pastoral scenes and the labels proclaimed them to be canisters of tea. “If I may say so, despite disturbing your sensibilities, I would gather that you were there at the scene?”
“I was.” Davenport had moved on to another aisle in the store—this one supplying paper, ink, and writing implements. She watched him closely as he considered the bottles of ink. “It was disturbing to say the least. Did you hear about the details?”
“Only that he died in the middle of the night in his room. I heard that it may not have been an entirely natural death.”
“Hm. I thought it quite unnatural. Tell me, Monsieur Davenport, what do you know about inks?”
He turned to regard her solemnly. “You must have a reason for asking me that question.” He jerked his head toward the counter where Georgette was hiding behind her fan. “It is obvious that you are trying to find out something,” he said lowly. “Let us talk about this elsewhere.”
She gave a sharp nod.
In a normal voice, he said, “Have you been to the Green Café, Mademoiselle? It is just down the main street.”
“No. I had the impression that most of the village was residential.”
“Oh, there are interesting places tucked here and there,” he replied. “Let me purchase these and I’ll show you.”
She followed him back to the front counter where Georgette totaled Davenport’s purchases and he paid for them before putting the odd assortment of cans and jars into his own rusksack. “I heard that you are going to the Green Café,” the proprietress said silkily as the observatory librarian was preoccupied with his things. “You are quite fast, aren’t you, Mademoiselle?”
The word fast didn’t have a very good connotation coming from her. But then she had heard worse. Sophisticated Parisian ladies had far subtler and sharper tongues when they wanted to flay a perceived rival. “I’m afraid my city ways must come as a shock to you,” Haidée replied. “The customs in the country must be very sedate indeed.”
“Sedate?” said Davenport. “Don’t you mean slow?”
“Perhaps,” Haidée said coolly. “Although I wouldn’t think of the village matrons as very slow.”
The proprietress made a strange sound at the back of her throat and slammed her hand down on the counter, and in the process, broke her fan. “I am not a matron!”
“Oh, you aren’t?” Haidée gave a mock dip of her head. “My apologies, Mademoiselle.” Then she headed out of the shop after Davenport.