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“Do you know him?” she whispered. It was disturbing that he didn’t seem moved at all, but then he didn’t live in this house.
“I do know who he is, yes,” Joe murmured cautiously.
Marguerite began to cry.
“I need to sit down,” she whispered and staggered to the chair located in the corner of the room in spite of herself.
Joe followed her and squatted down before her. Marcus swept the blanket she had wrapped around her, oh so long ago, off the floor and looked at it curiously.
“It is mine,” she whispered.
“The blanket?” Joe looked at it. “What’s it doing on the floor?”
She explained in haltering words what had happened. Sickness loomed by the time she had finished.
“Who are you?” she whispered. “Why are you here? What do you want with me?”
“My name is Joe,” Joe began.
Marguerite studied him and knew he was being honest with her. She knew he hadn’t been called Jeremy. He looked like a Joe. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved, or angry that he had lied to her thus far, but in light of this morning’s findings, his name was irrelevant.
Joe waved to his colleagues. “This is Marcus, and that man over there is Ben. We are here because we want some information from you, and we need to speak to your father.”
“But you accosted me last night at the recital. You kidnapped me,” she replied. Aware that her voice was rising she swallowed and willed herself to calm down. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“I was merely getting you out of a difficult situation,” Joe replied blandly.
Marguerite sensed there was more he wasn’t saying and didn’t trust him for a second. She began to wonder if she had made a dreadful mistake in allowing the three of them into the house. After all, they had tried to kidnap her last night. While he had been nice and polite, many a good conman was. She had to remember as well that he had been loitering outside, on a cold and foggy morning, very early in the morning, in her back garden.
“What were you doing in the garden just now?” she asked.
“Coming to see you,” Joe replied. He threw her a look that challenged her to contradict him.
As she looked at him, her gaze flickered to the corpse hanging just behind him and quickly turned away. Thankfully, he was now facing the window, so she was spared having to see his face again, but at least now he had stopped that dreadful swinging.
Joe stepped back and nodded at Marcus, who promptly removed a knife from his boot and approached the body.
“What are you going to do?” Marguerite cried in dismay.
“Cut him down,” Joe replied. “We can’t leave him hanging here. You need to take a closer look at his face. I need you to tell me if you know him.”
“I don’t. I don’t know him,” Marguerite persisted.
“He might be someone you recognise. It is hard to know for definite given where he is. Once he is on the floor, he will look different again. Just look at him, and think carefully if you have ever seen him talking to your father, or near here. Was he at the recital last night? Have you seen him anywhere near that Count?”
Marguerite felt sick. She didn’t want to, she really didn’t, but she knew she had to.
The dull thud of the body hitting the floor made her shudder. She immediately recoiled.
“Take a look at his face,” Joe urged.
“No.”
“We need you to take a good look and see if you recognise him.”
“I-I don’t,” she whispered.
“Then we need to go and find your father and see if he recognises him,” Joe sighed impatiently.
