Light Fantastique Page 6

  “I’m certain all the women here know how to scream without having to practice.” Johann put his instrument down, and his irritation allowed his tongue to get away with him with, “I’ve made certain of that myself.”

  “I am too much of a gentleman to boast of my conquests,” Frederic replied with a sniff.

  “Or you haven’t had any,” someone else in the orchestra put in, and the rest of them snickered.

  Are sounds of terror so common that no one cares?

  Johann left them to their chatting and made his way out of the auditorium to the front hall, where Madame St. Jean stood and peered out of one of the windows. Seeing her relieved him somewhat, for if Marie had been the one to scream, wouldn’t she have rushed out there?

  “That wasn’t part of the show, was it?”

  “Non, but it sounded like Corinne when she saw the ghost yesterday. There is a certain note to a woman’s shriek when she encounters her worst fear in an unexpected place.”

  “Is that who you searched for earlier, the ghost?” He joined her at the window. A knot of people gathered around a body on the sidewalk, and a dark figure darted through the crowd. “That’s Radcliffe. Someone’s hurt.”

  “Go see who it is. I dare not show myself.”

  Johann frowned, but he didn’t argue.

  The rain had brought in colder air, and although nothing fell from the sky at that moment, he wished he’d thought to grab his cloak. He rubbed his hands together and approached the gathering crowd on the sidewalk.

  “What happened?” he asked in French. The woman next to him gave him a haughty look and moved away, but a small man in dark clothing stepped toward him and spoke eagerly.

  “Such a tragedy! Madame and Monsieur were walking along when the man in front of them turned, just there by the gate, and stuck a knife in Monsieur.”

  “Is he badly injured?” Johann tried to move forward to see, but the crowd pushed him back, and a few glanced at him with curiosity. Of course he would draw attention with his lack of cloak, hat and gloves.

  “He is dead, Monsieur.” The man spoke in a gleeful tone.

  “And the murderer?”

  “Ran off. Some men gave chase, but he slipped away.”

  The dark blue and red uniforms of the gendarmerie appeared amidst the blacks and grays of winter outerwear, and the crowd thinned as though the appearance of the authorities turned the spectacle into a serious occurrence. Johann turned to report back to Madame, but a heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  “Maestro?” The young man looked familiar in that his features appeared more English than French, and his accent spoke more of school than street. “What are you doing out here in the cold? Surely a man as clever as you could remember to put on his hat and gloves before coming out to see a poor murdered wretch.”

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” Johann breathed into his cupped hands. Now that he thought about it, it was dastardly cold, and the sky spit snow rather than rain.

  “I’m Inspector Davidson,” the young man said. “I met you briefly after an incident at the Louvre last summer. As I recall, you were doing something in the fountain.”

  “Right. I’d dropped my spectacles.” Johann edged away from him. He had briefly encountered the man after the inspector questioned Iris about the murder of Monsieur Anctil, curator of the Renaissance collections. As Johann recalled, he’d been fishing out one of the little clockwork butterfly spy devices from where he’d knocked it so the sound of its distress whistle would be dampened, quite literally.

  “How is Mademoiselle McTavish? She seemed quite the sensible young lady, not one to be permanently affected by having witnessed such a horrible thing as a man’s death from poison in front of her.”

  Now Johann was halfway up the walk to the theatre entrance, but the man’s words made him pause, although he’d said something similar to her at the time. He’d later regretted his harsh words once he got to know her better. “She is quite well. I’ll tell her you asked for her. Well, er, I’m sure you’re busy.” He gestured to the tearful woman who gave a statement to one of the gendarmes and the mass of clothing that looked like a fallen crow on the sidewalk just beyond the fence.

  “Yes, I’m investigating a crime of a rather random nature.” Davidson inclined his head toward the same scene. “And it’s the second one I find you at in rather strange circumstances, so I would say I am doing my job.”

  “I had nothing to do with it,” Johann told him. “I was inside rehearsing with the rest of the orchestra when I heard the scream.”

  “And so you ran from a rehearsal to see what it was? Was the music that boring?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the music.”

  Johann didn’t want to reveal his concerns to the inspector. Besides, what would he tell him, that a ghost had been sighted at the theatre, and they thought he was up to no good? Or that Mademoiselle St. Jean had experienced something strange, apparently having no recollection of leaving her scripts in a trail from the stage to the star’s dressing room or locking herself in…with the key.

  “I’m afraid I must return to my rehearsal,” Johann said. “If you want me to come to the station and make a statement later, I can. Isn’t this out of your jurisdiction?”

  “All of Paris is my jurisdiction, as I am the city’s chief inspector. And I’ve been meaning to return to this place, particularly since I was made aware that you and Mademoiselle McTavish are in residence, so I will call on you later.” He touched the rim of his hat and turned to join his colleagues, who now questioned witnesses.

  When Johann walked through the theatre door, the warmth almost felt bruising to his cheeks and fingers, but it was nothing compared to Madame St. Jean’s clutching his right biceps.

  “What did the inspector want?” she asked. She let him go and smoothed her skirts.

  I’ve never seen her this agitated. “He wanted to know why I was outside in my shirtsleeves in this weather.”

  “As long as he does not return,” she said and moved to the nearest window, but she stood behind a curtain.

  “Why?”

  “I am Romany, and Marie being half-Romany and without a father is another count against us. I pay my taxes and for their silly licenses, but they always watch us.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s going to return to ask me about what I saw, and I think he may want to talk to Iris. He was the detective on Anctil’s murder case, and I suspect it is still unsolved.”

  She drew herself up. “Then when he does stop by, I count on you to get rid of him as soon as you are able.”

  “What did you see?” Johann asked.

  “Nothing, but I’m sure what happened will be in the papers later today.”

  Johann tried to make a joke to calm her. “If I’d known this was such a rough neighborhood—”

  “It’s not, Maestro. And don’t forget what you owe me.” She turned and left.

  Ah, well, it’s not the first time a woman has walked away from me in a huff.

  When Johann returned to the auditorium, he found it empty, the other musicians having gone home. His instrument sat where he’d left it, but underneath was a note—“Do not concern yourself with Mademoiselle St. Jean. She is quite sane. Trust that her guide is watching out for her and leave her be.”

  “Her guide?” He looked around, again with that feeling that the skin between his shoulder blades twitched under some sort of scrutiny, but the theatre was empty.

  * * * * *

  “You did it.” Iris gestured to the fake lighting system, now dark. Edward had hung back when the others ran out to investigate the scream, and she elected to stay with him. “You figured out how to make aether power it.”

  “It’s not powering it. It’s lighting it. Steam is still required to power the motor that directs the gas through the system.” Edward had pleaded exhaustion and now s
at at the table and toyed with a small screwdriver. The aether isolation device also stood dark, so the only light came from the flickering gas lamps on the wall. With the curtains drawn, the atelier felt cozy and almost claustrophobic.

  “So why can’t we open the curtains?” Iris moved toward the window. She half hoped Edward would stand to stop her, at least hold her arm in that gentle way of his.

  He’s solved his problem, so he can get back to courting me now. Or doesn’t he want to?

  “This is going to sound crazy. Well, more crazy than usual.” He did stand, and Iris tried not to appear too eager for him to be beside her. He walked past her and peered through a narrow space in the curtains, and she sucked in her stomach to keep her shoulders from obviously slumping around the ache in her chest.

  “Is something out there?” She kept her tone neutral.

  “A raven, but not a normal one. This one is steam-powered and seems to have some sort of camera inside it. Johann thinks it’s a Clockwork Guild invention, but it’s not their usual kind of device.”

  “You’re sure it’s steam-powered?”

  “We only got a brief glimpse of it. Hopefully we closed the curtains before it took a picture of us or the aether devices, but yes. Johann said it seemed to breathe fire, and I figured it out.”

  A year ago, Iris would have dismissed the raven he described as the ravings of a madman who had been working too hard, but that was before she’d become intimately acquainted with the clockwork spy butterflies. She still automatically looked twice at any flash of gold or brass.

  With Edward at the window, Iris glanced at the screwdriver he’d been fidgeting with, and the tips of her fingers tingled as it called to her to read it. She hesitated. Edward had some sense of what she could do, although she didn’t know to what degree he understood what objects told her. Either way, he didn’t like it when she invaded his privacy. But he hadn’t been talking to her, and she needed to know how he was mentally. The specter of the nervous breakdown he’d had in the past hovered in the back of her mind. She hadn’t witnessed it firsthand, but Johann Bledsoe had described it in sufficient detail that she knew she didn’t want Edward to have another one.

  I’ll try one more thing, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll do it.

  “How are you doing?” she asked and joined him at the window. He glanced at her but didn’t shift his gaze from outside for more than a moment.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve hardly seen you, and I know that’s partially my fault—I’ve been in exams and studying a lot—but I’ve missed you.” She reminded herself to breathe in the seconds that stretched before his reply.

  “I’m all right. Working hard too.”

  But have you missed me? She wasn’t going to ask him, lead him along or do all the work for him. You’re such a genius, you figure out how to continue the conversation.

  Finally he asked, “And how are you? Do you have your exam results yet?”

  All right, that’s a start, although I wish he’d said he missed me too.

  Lucille’s words came back to her—that she would always come second to his work—and she stalked away from the window.

  “They went well, I think. They’ll post marks at the end of next week.”

  Now she stood within reach of the screwdriver. Has he been thinking of me at all?

  He returned to watching for, well, whatever he was worried about. Iris placed a finger on the tool and mentally directed it to tell her what he’d been feeling and thinking. Profound fatigue overlying anxiety—no surprise there—and a resigned feeling of hopelessness and dark expectations. That’s unexpected. But she couldn’t confront him about it, not now that they were talking. Sort of talking. And the only impression of her was of her bright, fake smile. Seeing it from his perspective made her heart collapse into her stomach—she looked like her mother had when humoring her capricious daughter, but Iris could always see the lack of genuineness.

  Iris closed her eyes and clasped her hands together. She didn’t know what he wanted, what he truly needed.

  That’s my theme, failing those who love me.

  Hands on her upper arms startled her, and she leaned back into him. She tried not to notice that he smelled like he’d been in the laboratory for long hours or to feel the aching tiredness that radiated through his clothing. He must be exhausted if she could feel it from the material, which typically didn’t harbor impressions like hard substances did.

  “In your studies, have you found anything that might be helpful?”

  The frustration in his voice negated the comfort in his hands. “What do you mean?”

  He stepped away and gestured to the aether isolation device, which was hooked up to a small engine. “We have the frequency to stabilize it, or rather the range of frequencies and tones in which it will not fade. We’re still missing something that will help us convert it to a power source.”

  “You want me to help you?” Iris didn’t know whether to be thrilled he wanted to include her or upset that he wanted her mind rather than, well, the rest of her.

  “I need you to help me. And I need to sleep.”

  He stumbled out of the atelier. Iris thought about reading another object, but she didn’t know which he had touched most recently and which ones O’Connell had, and she had no desire to invade the Irishman’s privacy. She peeked out of the window, but all she saw was snow falling from the sky.

  Chapter Eight

  Théâtre Bohème Townhouse, 2 December 1870

  Marie stayed on the front stoop and watched Doctor Radcliffe dart through the crowd around the fallen man. Some of them looked askance at his dark skin, but the intense expression in his gray eyes moved them out of the way. Patrick O’Connell followed behind him, as always, and eliminated any other obstacles. Maestro Bledsoe ran from the front of the theatre, and Marie shook her head, bemused. Now he was the one without a cloak, but she hung back, the impulse to play the role of premiere femme trying to take over. The muscles in her face settled into a haughty expression, and her shoulders straightened as if to show off her figure.

  She closed her eyes. I am Marie St. Jean. I am not a premiere femme. I am an ordinary but haunted girl.

  What had Iris said about a dangerous spirit in the theatre? Could it be the same one who had appeared to her? Or who she thought appeared to her. Sometimes she couldn’t distinguish between her dreams and reality. But why would she have been napping in Corinne’s—no, my—dressing room?

  Not mine. I am not Henriette.

  She knew what would help, what always did. She would go underground and visit the one person who always saw through her, perhaps the only one who knew her core self, although he would never answer her questions. Still, being down there near him placed her firmly in herself, not one of her roles. Unfortunately the special entrance she needed to the underground was in the theatre, and the crowd stood between her and it.

  The gendarmerie appeared as well as a tall man in a nondescript dark suit and hat. Something about him said he was important, and she followed her instinct to draw back and pull her hood over her head. Now he intercepted Bledsoe, and they walked toward the theatre’s front entrance.

  This was her chance. She slipped down the stairs and walk, then across the street to avoid the crowd. One of the gendarmes questioned Radcliffe, who gestured as he wiped his bloody hands on a rag. O’Connell stood by a distraught woman, whose degree of distress made Marie guess she’d been with the murdered man. Another man in a dark suit questioned her under O’Connell’s watchful eye, and Marie shook her head. The Irishman had an interesting mix of being attracted to high-drama situations and sometimes causing them, but with a surprising amount of tenderness. She thought he’d be good for a young lady who needed both excitement and gentle handling in the future.

  Snow fell in small and then larger flakes, obscuring the tableau. Marie crossed aga
in at the corner and walked down the block before ducking down the alley she’d chased Corinne through the day before. Or had tried to chase her.

  Now, the portico door or the rear door? Which is least likely to bring me in contact with Maman? Probably the portico door—she’s likely hiding out from the inspector in the bowels of the theatre.

  She turned and slunk through the carriage lane and to the side door under the portico. The door opened to reveal Lucille.

  “Stupid fille, what are you doing out there? He will see you.” She grabbed Marie and pulled her into the theatre and the cloak room.

  “Who? The man you were looking for earlier?” Marie extracted herself from her mother’s grasp and rubbed her arm.

  “Non, the inspector. He has been here before.”

  “Why?” Marie was accustomed to Lucille’s high drama, but the woman seemed thoroughly frightened this time. She even spoke in a mix of French and English, which she only did when particularly perturbed.

  “Because of things you and I would rather not speak of. Why are you not back at the townhouse as I instructed Mademoiselle McTavish?”

  Marie opened her mouth and closed it before her inner premiere femme could say, “Because I am an actress, and I belong in the theatre.” She clenched her left fist and started her litany, but her mother’s lips drew back in a satisfied smirk.

  “Because you cannot stay away. Because you were born to be Fantastique.”

  “No, I have other business.” And this is why I don’t tell you things.

  “With Monsieur Bledsoe?”

  Marie’s thoughts aligned with her mother’s apparent suspicions, and the remainder of the cold from outside melted from her cheeks. She couldn’t tell her mother of her true intentions, but she didn’t want to lie outright. “That is my affair, not yours.”

  “If you are to make another grave mistake that will take you away from me, I have a right to know. Are you interested in the maestro?”

  Once set on a path, Lucille wouldn’t let go. Marie sighed. “I find him handsome and interesting. I may even enjoy being in his company, but I am well aware he has made his share of mistakes, and I have no desire to help him pay for them.”