The Duchess

As I watched the flames leap, I noticed the ashes falling and how they looked like dust. Maybe that is where the saying comes from: Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust. That’s all that will be left when I leave. No one will know what happened. No one would believe me if I told them. This will be my little secret until the day I die.

I was never supposed to be here, you see. Due to some last-minute medical emergency, my boss was unable to fly to Paris, so she chose me to take her place. At first, I was ecstatic. Paris, the City of Light. I would see the Eiffel Tower, eat at cafés, walk along the Seine, and maybe even meet someone. But, as I looked around the apartment I was charged with cataloguing, all I could see was dust.

I followed the French attorney around, he told me about the previous owner. She was a woman in her late 90’s who used to be an aristocrat but gave it all up to live a life of seclusion. Whatever was left in this apartment was the sum of her life. Anything of value was being claimed by the French government and the rest would be sold at auction to pay debts. It was disheartening to see someone’s life reduced to a list of no consequence.

The library was probably going to be the quickest place to begin as all I had to do was write down the titles and conditions of the books. I put in my headphones, grabbed my pen and paper, and slowly began working my way around the room. By lunch, I was covered in grime and desperately needing a break, so I cleaned up in the sink as best I could and headed to the café, hoping for something amazing to eat.

While he was checking on customers, the owner came over and asked me why I was in Paris. When I explained my work, he understood my need for coffee. The Duchess would often come to his café and tell him stories of her childhood home.

“Apparently, it was rather opulent. She always made it sound like Versailles to me,” he chuckled, “but it was clear she was not French. She had a strange accent, which I could not place. I think she was maybe trying to hide it. At my café, I see many foreigners and hear many tongues, you see.”

As I walked back, I pondered what he could have meant by that. I started on the highest bookshelf and it was there that I discovered something that would change my life forever, wedged tightly behind a row of modern romance novels.

A small, black notebook, worn down until it was soft as butter. it was tightly bound by a leather cord with remnants of a gold leaf design, long sense worn away by constant use. I climbed down the ladder and unwrapped the cord, opening to the first page dated July 18, 1918. This was a journal, written in another language, and therefore of no value to the estate. I set it on the desk and continued to work for the rest of the day. As the sun set, it was time to return to my hotel. I placed the journal in my bag, determined to discover the language, and occupy my evening with a small mystery. Thanks to Google Translator, this was a simple task….or so I thought.

It was me. I did it. I killed them all. My brother, my sisters, my parents. I even killed those who witnessed my crimes. I don’t know why I did it. I think I went mad. Is this the curse the priest was talking about? All I know is that I must run and never return. I burned the bodies in the forest, but I can’t seem to get the smell out of my hair. The ashes cling to me day and night, reminding me of my horrors. I took some small jewels in a bag with me because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself with luggage. No one noticed me get on the train, probably because I looked like a street orphan covered in mud and soot. I’ll have to start over. I don’t know why I’m not sad right now, but maybe I’m in shock. There were so many soldiers, so many people screaming, that I just snapped. My father had us all running through the forest to escape, but it was too far. I was too tired, and my bare feet were bleeding over the rocks and branches on the ground. My little brother was clinging to my back, weighing me down, and suddenly I couldn’t take it anymore.

No one can know what I’ve done. No one.

This was not what I was expecting to read in the journal of an elderly aristocrat. I decided to research the deceased. Duchess Tanya married young in the 1920’s into the French aristocracy and survived the Great Depression, as well as WWII, by staying out of the public eye and keeping with the status quo. She had no children, and her husband was killed during the war. There was no mention of her life prior to France, and by all accounts she was quiet, discrete, and proper. The lack of drama and historical commentary on someone so high in society was unusual. Could this be the same woman?

One thing struck me as odd-- the mention of the priest and a curse. That tells me that she came from a place where they believed in such nonsense. So, I did the only thing I could think of doing with what little information I had left: I Googled the date July 18, 1918. Nothing specific came up in my search besides some small battles from WWI. Travelling in that time would have been difficult, but she said she came by train. So, if she murdered her family, it happened before she wrote that entry. I typed “July 17, 1918” in the search box. “Execution of the Romanov family” was the first finding. I blinked. No. This is insane. A young girl who murdered her entire family and witnesses, burned the bodies, and escaped during a war to France by train could not be part of the famous Russian revolution. I closed my laptop, poured myself a large glass of wine, and stepped out onto my balcony to clear my head. I got out my phone and called my friend Sam back in New York. It was still lunch there.

“Hey! How’s Paris? Meet any hot French guys yet?”

“No! I haven’t even been on the ground 24 hours yet. Definitely got my work cut out for me this time though. The place is wall to wall junk. It’ll take ages to get through,” I complained.

“Find anything cool like a Monet or a solid gold swan?” she asked.

“Haha no, it’s not that kind of estate. I did find an old journal that’s kind of freaking me out…” I trailed off.

“You read her journal? Not cool. Karma is going to bite you in the ass for that.” I rolled my eyes. Leave it to Sam to be offended.

“She’s not going to care. She’s dead, remember? I don’t even know it’s hers. It was hidden behind some books and it talks about murders committed in 1918. Maybe it was a weird collector’s item?” I rationalized aloud.

“Whoa. Murders? You should give that to the police. This is not one of your trashy mysteries. It could be evidence in a cold case. Seriously, turn it over to the cops. That’s not what you’re there to work on. You work for an estate attorney, not Sherlock Holmes.”

I sighed. “Alright, it’s late. Talk to you tomorrow.” I hung up.

I took a shower, turned the lights off, and crawled into bed. There was a knock at my door. I checked the clock: 1:04am. I called the front desk.

“Hello, this is room 503. Did you send someone to my room?”

“No, madam, we did not send anyone. Can we help you with something?”

“Someone just knocked on my door. Could you please send security?”

“Oui, madam.”

I put on my robe and tiptoed to the door. I looked through the peephole and saw a tall man with dark hair, wearing all black, and backed away from the door.

“I know you’re there. I am with the government and need to speak with you about a call you just made to America to Ms. Sam Ballenger.”

How could they know about that call? It was 20 minutes ago.

“I assure you I mean you no harm, but I must speak with you immediately.”

“I’ve called hotel security. They’ll be here momentarily,” I stated through the door.

“No, they won’t. We have measures in place to prevent interference and to ensure complete privacy for our conversation. This will only take a few moments. Please open the door, or I will be forced to open it myself,” he said in a mildly threatening tone.

Against my better judgement, I opened the door. “May I see some identification?” I asked in my bravest voice.

“No,” he said as he strolled into my room.

“Say what you need to say, but I’m recording this conversation,” I said, showing him my phone. He reached out, took it, and turned it off.

“That would be unwise. You may call me Mr. Anton. On the call, you mentioned a journal and that it described a series of murders. I know you have it with you based upon your recent web searches, so please hand it over.”

I did my best to keep a blank face, but there was no way to keep the surprise at bay. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never take anything from the estates. That’s theft.”

“Shall I arrest you for theft then as well? Or would you like to stop pretending, hand over the notebook, and walk away? Perhaps Sam would also like a visit from our agency, or your new friend at the café? It would be a shame if harm came to them because you were too curious to cooperate.”

“What does an anonymous government entity want with an old journal anyway? Writing something doesn’t make it true.”

“It’s quite simple. The black notebook in question should not exist. All you need to know is now that we have discovered it, it will be dealt with appropriately,” he said with smug confidence.

“Now that ‘we’ have discovered it? No. I found it, and it does exist. You cannot take it from the Estate of the Duchess. If it has value, you must wait like everyone else for the auction.”

“Enough. If credit is what you desire, I can take care of that,” he said as he took out his phone. He quickly dialed a number and began speaking with a different accent.

“Yes, hello. My name is Adam Turner and I work for the Garnier Corporation in Paris. I wanted to praise your employee on her dedication and offer to provide a $20,000 bonus to complete the project within the month, plus credit her for any findings of value in the auction. Yes, that’s correct, twenty thousand dollars. Wonderful. Goodbye.” He looked up at me. “There, that should keep your mouth shut. Now, hand it over and walk away.”

As the years passed, I knew I shouldn’t have agreed. I’d continued to research in secret and came to the conclusion that Duchess Tanya was really Grand Duchess Anastasia, the so-called missing child of the murdered Czar Nicholas. But I knew the truth: she was never missing. She was the killer. I gave that blood money to a museum for a Romanov exhibit. The “government” wanted to keep this secret for a reason, and I would find out why. All I had to do was find evidence.