Light Fantastique (14 page)

Might as well talk to him. It is nice and warm here, and I'm going to have to ask him where to look for what I'm seeking. But I can at least be honest, and maybe he'll tell me how I did on my exams.

“I don't find it exciting at all. As much as I like living in Paris, I don't enjoy being trapped.”

A sharp bark of laughter escaped him. “And what do the young know about being trapped? You use that word so freely. Trapped in a promise, in a relationship, in a situation you don't know enough about to get out of.”

Iris glanced over her shoulder at him and saw he studied her. She kept her expression perplexed with little effort.
No reason to let him know his barb hit home. What do I know of what's going on with Edward? And do I want to get out of it? No, I won't betray him, and I do love him.

“Your eyes give you away, Mademoiselle. What are you here to avoid? An awkward situation at home? A young man who won't give you the attention you want?”

The heat in Iris's cheeks had nothing to do with the fire, and her eyes stung, but not from smoke. She moved away from the hearth toward the door.

“As much as I respect your knowledge, Monsieur, I do not have any wish to be insulted.”

“I have seen only a few young women with your intelligence, Mademoiselle. Most of them have been lured away from promising careers by a young man who they felt could give them more. If I insult you, it is to awaken you to the fact that
les hommes
will try to convince you they are more important than the science you pursue. Any science, really.”

He doesn't know Edward.
“I don't see that as my problem, Monsieur.”

“Then why are you here? The snow outside is thick for so early in the season, and the rest of the museum feels like a Scandinavian ice tomb.”

Iris had to laugh at his sour expression, and she reminded himself that at his age, he probably felt the cold in his joints. Her father had just started complaining the winter before he died in spite of being in apparent good health.

No reason to refuse help because I'm irritated. But I'll show Johann I'm capable of doing this without revealing too much. Not that he's the soul of discretion.

“I'm here to get ahead with my studies of artifacts from the classical period in the Byzantine Empire. We've mostly looked at Greek and Roman objects, and I didn't see a near Eastern course in the catalog. While I know it was part of the Roman Empire at one point, I also appreciate the other cultural differences and influences and would like to know more.”

“That's because we don't have enough for one.” His frown deepened. “We've been waiting for Madame Dieulafoy to send back her finds from the area.”

“Will she come here?” Iris couldn't help but ask about her idol, who, she noted, employed her husband and took
him
along on expeditions, not the other way around.

“I imagine she will return to Paris at some point, yes, but we never know exactly what Madame Dieulafoy will do,” Monsieur Firmin said with a shake of his head. “She is a free spirit, and the exception to the rule I mentioned earlier.”

“Then it's all the more important that I study up on that area of the world,” Iris pointed out. “You'll need help when things come in.”

Firmin's scowl rearranged itself into something resembling a smile. “You are a determined young woman. Very well, I will show you where to start.”

“
Merci.
”

He rose from his seat slowly, again reminding Iris that he was an old man, took a book from his shelves, and moved to the door. She turned to follow him, but something tugged at the edge of her senses. She stilled. The last time that had happened, she had discovered a clue to her father's death and a note he left for her. The pull directed her to the manuscript he had been studying.

“Monsieur Firmin, if I may ask, what were you looking at when I came in?” She had to rush to catch up with him.

“It's an ancient Byzantine manuscript. Nothing relevant to what you want to know, just some records of crops and agricultural transactions.”

Something about his posture said he was lying to her, but she didn't challenge him. She decided she would look at it on her own when she had the chance. Not that her Greek was that strong, especially not from an area of the world where other languages strongly influenced it, but items made of cloth or paper typically didn't hold impressions. That this one seemingly did and wanted her to read it intrigued her.

He brought her to the classical gallery with the waving statue. After he turned on the electric lights, which did nothing to increase the temperature, he pointed to a glass case covered in cloth.

“In that case are some typical Byzantine pottery examples, but they have not yet been labeled. Your job is to do so by period and type.” He handed the book to her.

Iris placed the book on a nearby table and removed the cloth. The glass lids weren't locked, and it looked like someone had gone in and smashed the pottery so that all that remained were shards, which lay about like large chunks of clay confetti. She looked at Monsieur Firmin questioningly.

“What happened?” she asked.

“They arrived here like this in a large box. I would like to get my hands on whatever workmen dropped it.”

“Me too.” The enormity of the task ahead made Iris's stomach twist. “They can't be identified until they're reconstructed. I can see some features, but shape is impossible.”

“Then you have a puzzle to keep you occupied. Good luck.”

He left, and Iris turned to the case.
Big hairy ox's bollocks! He just wants me out of his hair, or what's left of it.

She picked up a potsherd, noting its texture and colors. It gave off faint impressions, but it seemed to have been handled and moved a lot since arriving in Europe. She would have to seriously focus to dig far back enough to see its original shape and function.

How to do this? Well, without using too much energy. If I were to put all these together with just my touch-sense, I would end up with a huge headache and in bed for a week.

Iris glanced at the door, where Monsieur Firmin watched her. With a wave, he disappeared.

That was the first genuine smile I've seen on the man this year.
He's expecting me to fail.

With renewed determination, she flexed her fingers and set to trying to get some idea of which shards went together.

If this is what it takes to obtain access to the materials I need, then so be it.
Edward's not the only one who can throw himself into work.

Chapter Fifteen

Outside Maison Cinsault, 3 Dec 1870

“How long have you been here?” Johann asked Inspector Davidson. The darkness of the clouds overhead mirrored Davidson's expression, and Johann steeled himself against the disapproval inherent there.

See? This is why I don't make myself useful. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. He looks a self-righteous sort.

“Long enough,” was Davidson's reply. He spoke with clipped words, like he picked up each one with tweezers and hurled it at them. “And did you glean anything interesting from Madame Cinsault, or did you merely influence a witness to be less welcoming on my return visit?”

“I'm sure she'd enjoy it regardless,” Johann muttered.

If Davidson heard him, he ignored him. “I need to talk to the two of you anyway. My coach is parked around the corner. It's still cold inside, but it's outside of the wind.”

“Are you offering us a ride?” Radcliffe asked.

Johann glared at his companion. “You want to take him up on it?”

“It's beastly cold out here.” Indeed, the doctor looked miserable. Johann recalled how Radcliffe had seemed perfectly content in the furnace that was Rome that summer, unusual if he considered Radcliffe as being from Boston.

But was he? Johann had never asked, just assumed. Either way, he would deal with Davidson's questions to get out of the cold for a bit.

“Come, gentlemen, I promise nothing untoward will befall you.” With a strange smirk, he gestured for them to follow.

They found his carriage around the corner, as promised. Johann admitted to some relief once he climbed in out of the swirling snow and biting wind.

“This weather isn't good,” Davidson said and rapped on the wall between him and the carriage driver. “The city is already short on coal, and this will make it run out sooner. I fear our men will not be able to outlast the Prussians with the fear of riots.”

“Won't the people prefer a coal shortage to the Prussian yoke or reparations?” Radcliffe asked.

“For many of them, slavery is a mere concept, not a reality,” Davidson replied. “Cold is real to them.”

Radcliffe straightened, and Johann raised his eyebrows. He and the others deliberately didn't refer to the doctor's dark skin and the ancestry it implied.

“I meant no offense,” Davidson said and held his hand palm-down. “Perhaps we should steer toward safer subjects.”

“Yes,” Radcliffe said. “Let's. What do you want to know?”

“What did you observe about the scene yesterday?” Davidson asked.

Radcliffe related how he had rushed into the crowd and found Monsieur Cinsault lying on the sidewalk bleeding from his wounds.

“What sort of weapon do you think was used?” Davidson asked.

“Something long and sharp enough to go through all those layers of winter clothes.”

“So it was a planned act,” Johann said. “Who carries a knife like that around?”

“There are certain professions, and I expect more men to be armed with the Prussians pushing at the gates,” Davidson noted. “But you make a good point.”

Johann arched an eyebrow at the pun, but Davidson seemed not to realize he'd made one.

“You're a battlefield doctor, correct?” Davidson asked Radcliffe.

“Yes.”

“So you've seen all kinds of injuries inflicted by blades.”

“You could say that,” Radcliffe frowned. “What are you getting at?”

“Only that you're in a unique position to be able to answer my next question. Did the wounds seem to be professionally inflicted or aimed by an amateur?”

“One of them was in the left kidney, so between the location and the speed of the attack, I would say the stabber knew what he was doing.”

“My thoughts as well,” Davidson said and looked out of the window. “From what witnesses said, the stabber ran up behind him, got him in the kidney, pulled the knife out, and then when Cinsault fell, stabbed him again in the chest. So the question remains, who wanted Monsieur Cinsault dead to the degree they were willing to hire an assassin or someone equally adept at knife-wielding?”

“And what kind of assassin inflicts a second wound after a fatal one?” Johann asked. It was terribly exciting watching the detective piecing it all together. Then he remembered the widow sitting in the middle of her web mourning the loss of her convenient lifestyle more than her husband, and he felt doubly sorry for the poor dead sod.

“Perhaps he wasn't sure he'd met his mark through all the winter clothing, as Doctor Radcliffe suggested,” the detective said. “That makes more sense for the context—it makes no sense for someone who knew what he was doing to attack there, in front of the theatre, unless he was trying to send a message.” He glanced at Johann.

Or was trying to confirm the identity of the victim.

A chill slid down Johann's spine, and he recalled the strange raven. “A message?”

Like the Clockwork Guild is watching me, and they're willing to do anything to obtain what I owe them.

Davidson's voice startled Johann from his panicked thoughts. “As for you, Maestro, why did you run into the fray in your shirtsleeves?”

At least he didn't have to come up with a clever answer for that question. He could tell the unvarnished truth. “I heard the scream and was concerned it might have been one of the women in our group.”

“But it wasn't.”

“No, thank God.”

“And what would you have done, unarmed and without even a coat?” Davidson shook his head. “I admire your chivalrous instincts, but you could have caught your death of cold, not to mention you were too late to do anything.”

With the inspector's proclamation of Johann's uselessness—or was it impotence?—the carriage slowed, and Davidson said, “And here we are. Please give Miss McTavish my regards and tell her I shall call on her tomorrow.”

With that, he let Johann and Radcliffe out. They stood and watched the carriage drive away.

“That was odd,” Johann said.

“Not really,” Radcliffe replied. “You gave him the information he wanted, which was to eliminate you as being connected to the stabbing.”

“Why would he think I was?”

“Perhaps it had something to do with Monsieur Anctil's murder. You do seem to have rotten luck with showing up around people being killed, and he's obviously looking for a connection.”

“Yes, he said as much yesterday.” The chill slid back up Johann's back. They turned and walked toward the townhouse's front door.

“You may have more to do with this than you recognize. Remember what we talked about yesterday.”

“Then why aren't you afraid around me?” He didn't want to admit he had similar fears, and he certainly wasn't going to mention the Clockwork Guild, the source of his shame.

“I've faced worse.” With that, Radcliffe pushed his way through the front door.

Johann shivered on the doorstep, reluctant to enter. What did he deserve of the warmth and camaraderie that awaited within? Only mere crumbs of it, if that. He had put the others in danger before—was it to be so again? If that was the case, he vowed to leave before something happened to any of them. But he needed more information.

When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a dark shape in a tree. It was impossible to see through the snow in the dusky light, but he thought it might have glowing eyes. Instead of going inside, he decided to take a walk to clear his mind and draw the steam raven—if that was what it was—away.

* * * * *

Marie left the theatre during a break in the snow. The others had already gone, taking advantage of the brief respite from the flakes falling from the sky and blowing on to unprotected skin and into the creases between collars and necks. Sometimes the snow felt like it had a mind of its own and was determined to make people, her in particular, as uncomfortable as possible.

The branches of the trees stretched toward the darkening sky, the flickering street lamps gilding the snow gathered on the branches. Marie liked the winter, when the trees were naked and showed their true forms. She wished it was as easy for her.

“Mademoiselle!”

Marie turned to see Janelle come up behind her.

“What are you doing here still? I thought you'd already left. This isn't the kind of weather to be dawdling in, and I almost just locked you in the theatre.”

Janelle bit her lip and looked away, a girlish gesture in spite of the womanly curves she had acquired in the previous two years.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Janelle said. “I don't live far from here.”

“All right.” Marie turned to go back into the theatre, but she hesitated. What if whatever had stolen Zokar's automaton lurked in there waiting to peel more memories from her brain? She took some satisfaction in locking the door. “I'll walk with you to your flat. I could use the exercise.”

“Aren't you afraid to be out alone after dark? They say women shouldn't be, especially not now during the siege with desperate men about.”

The role of Marguerite the Spy tugged at the edges of Marie's spirit. She shrugged it and Janelle's concern off. “There are ways to get around that others don't know. I'll be fine. What do you want to know about?”

In spite of brushing off Janelle's concern, Marie watched the shadows between the street lamps and under the trees, sparse as they were, as they walked.

“I just wanted to know—” Janelle stopped and coughed. “I mean, you have such a stage presence. I've never seen anyone act like you do, not even Mademoiselle Sellers, as good as she is.”

“Even after today?” Marie couldn't help but ask. She'd managed to keep Henriette from taking over until the very end. Now in the chill air, she felt like it melted off her and left her soul as bare and exposed as the trees.

“Everyone has a rough day, and the others were accustomed to Corinne, so they were off rhythm. I have faith that Fantastique will have a triumphant return to the stage of the Théâtre Bohème.”

“You're assuming she wants to.”

Janelle turned her wide-eyed gaze to Marie. “Why wouldn't she? I mean you? You were the greatest actress. That's why I want you to teach me.”

Marie turned away from Janelle's innocent request, and a moving shadow caught her eye.

“Are we close to your place?” she asked.

“Yes, Mademoiselle. Just around the corner.”

“I think we're being followed.”

Janelle turned to look behind them, but Marie stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Don't let on that we know. Just walk normally.”

Marie felt the role of the female spy coming over her. It felt like her cheekbones grew higher and a cool glint came to her eye. Not that she could see it, but her eyelids narrowed of their own accord. She knew whoever looked at her would see a cold woman, someone not to be interfered with.

“Mademoiselle, I'm nervous,” Janelle said. “I don't want to show them my lodging.”

Marie fought the urge to snap at Janelle to be quiet—the girl at least was thinking cautiously. “Then if we're almost there, you go around the corner to your place, and I'll deal with them. Can you make it?”

Janelle nodded.

“Then go.”

She didn't have to tell Janelle to walk quickly. The girl disappeared around the corner, and Marie heard a door open and shut. She turned to face whoever had followed them.

“Pleasant evening, Mademoiselle St. Jean.” The sneering American accent destroyed the melody of the French words.

“There's no need to waste time with pleasantries,” Marie addressed the two men who faced her on the sidewalk and blocked her from returning from where she came. “What do you want?”

“We work for someone who's an old friend,” the same man said, switching to speaking English. “He wants you to come with us, Miss. And what he wants, he gets.”

They must mean Cobb. He knows Mother wouldn't let me out of her sight long enough to see him. But what is he doing in Paris? And how did he get through the siege lines? The Blooming Senator must be flying again.

“I'm not interested in seeing your employer,” she said and drew the aura of the spy around her. “If he wants to meet up with me, he can make an appointment like everyone else. I'm busy.”

The two men moved closer, and the larger one, who hadn't spoken, grabbed her upper arm.

“He's not interested in being like everyone else.”

“Is there a problem, Mademoiselle?”

Again, Marie was relieved to hear the voice of Maestro Johann Bledsoe, but dismay made her huff.

What is he doing here? I don't want him to get hurt.