Light Fantastique (17 page)

Davidson grinned. “Come, I'll give you a ride. The city is tense, and a man walking along with something as valuable as your violin is at risk.”

Dammit, he had a point. “Very well.”

They climbed into the carriage, which moved after Davidson tapped on the ceiling. “Of course I count on you to pass along any information Madame gives you,” Davidson said, now in English with a perfect upper-class accent. “As a show of our good faith in each other, of course.”

“I'll pass along anything useful,” Johann replied. “Although I suspect you're investigating more than the murder.”

“I'll determine what's useful, and yes. You can ask Miss McTavish and Mademoiselle St. Jean, but you will find that our purposes are much more in alignment than you realize.”

“How so?”

Davidson patted the briefcase on the bench next to him. “For example, I know you are several thousand pounds in debt to the Clockwork Guild, and you are currently trying—and failing—to hide from their agents.”

“Are you one of them?” Johann asked. He steeled himself.
This is it, the end. He's going to finish me. And what if Cinsault was murdered because of his resemblance to me?

“No, quite the contrary. I've been tasked with investigating them and other secret organizations that have global reach.”

Johann deflated at the words
global reach
. “Meaning I can't ever escape them, so I may as well cooperate with you.”

The inspector smiled with a cat's grin. “Precisely. I had my eye on Monsieur Cinsault even before his untimely death, although I'm not sure which society he was involved with. I need you to gain access to his papers. Madame allowed me to look around his study, but I couldn't do so thoroughly with the butler watching me as closely as he did, and I still lack a warrant. The judges are tied up with looting crimes.”

Johann also suspected that the English-born inspector might have trouble getting the judge's ear, but he didn't say anything. The smoke in the sky appeared farther away in spite of them moving east.

“That's a good sign,” Johann said.

“Possibly. The Prussians aren't going to be beaten so easily, I fear. Stay alert for word of a counterattack and panic in the streets.”

“Right. You sound hopeful about the possibility. Has the hunt for secret organizations not been exciting enough for you?” Johann bit his tongue, but too late. He couldn't help but tweak Davidson, especially now that he knew what the man was—a spy.

Davidson gave him a look of pure English condescension. “I'm ready for this stalemate to be over, as I'm sure you are. Although if you want to make your move on Mademoiselle St. Jean, you had best get to it.”

“What do you mean by that? Surely you don't have designs on her.”

“She would likely not be pleased at your phrasing. But no, I don't. She has been getting a lot of attention lately. Haven't you noticed the ravens?”

“Of course.”

“We've observed that they tend to follow only two of you around—you and her.”

They pulled up to the gate in front of the Cinsault estate. Johann looked around at the large houses with their walls that were more for show than actual function. Or were they? “You'll wait here?”

“For as long as I can. Try not to delay any more than you have to, but be thorough.”

Johann shook his head at the contradictory instructions but shook the inspector's hand. “I appreciate any help you can give me with the Guild,” he said, although he hated to ask for help getting himself out of a sticky situation.

“And I appreciate your assistance with this investigation.”

Johann walked up to the front door, and this time the butler let him right in.

Chapter Nineteen

Maison Cinsault, 4 December 1870

Johann found Madame Cinsault in her husband's study. Unlike the previous week, it was relatively warm with a fire in the grate. Madame stood by one of the windows and barely turned to acknowledge him when he entered.

“Ah, Maestro,” she said. “I'm glad you could come.”

As a connoisseur of women's voices and tones—mostly so he could know when he was in trouble—Johann picked up that she spoke not with flirtatious intent but with a panicked edge.

“Is something wrong, Madame?”

“Come see.” She gestured for him to join her at the window. Once he stood beside her, she traced a shape that had been etched on the outside of the window.

Johann felt the same sort of rush when he stepped on stage and knew his father and brothers were in the audience. In other words, he knew things had just made a drastic turn for the worst. There, beneath Madame's manicured nail, was a square inside a circle, the same symbol that was on the paper Monsieur Anctil gave Iris before he died. She'd later explained to him that it was a Pythagorean symbol showing the merging of the heavenly and earthly realms.

“Have you seen this before?” Johann asked. He glanced toward the door and was glad not to see the butler.

At this point, she cannot trust anyone, but at least we now know which secret society Cinsault was involved with.

“Yes, on some of my husband's letters. He kept those hidden from me, but I knew where he put them. I read them to ensure I knew what he was up to.”

“What did they say?”

“They were written in some sort of code. I can find them for you.”

She walked to the large desk and bent over, giving him a nice view of her décolletage. He turned back to the window and studied the symbol, which was barely visible against the snow outside.

“When did this appear?”

“Last night.” She sounded mildly annoyed, so he turned back to her and gave her the admiring glance she seemed to want.

Johann imagined the fingering for the Symphonie Fantastique overture melody to keep himself calm while she dug around under the desk. They knew less about the neo-Pythagoreans than the Clockwork Guild, and the neo-Pythagoreans seemed more mysterious and ruthless. They had gotten away with murdering poor Anctil, after all.

“It's a well-hidden compartment,” she told him. Finally she said, “Aha!” and something clicked.

“These are his secret letters,” she said and handed him a bundle of them. “Please take them. I'm frightened.”

“Was there something else that made you feel threatened?”

She reached into her décolletage and pulled out a slip of paper. “This.”

He read the note, which was in a different handwriting from what he'd received in the theatre—thank goodness—but it had a certain familiarity.

Know you are being watched. Do not let your guard down for a moment lest you meet a fate worse than Monsieur's.

“This has gone beyond a jealous lover's motives,” he said.

She nodded and turned back toward the window. “Whatever Alain was involved with, he was obviously in beyond what he could handle.” She clenched a fist. “And he put both our lives and comfort in danger.”

Johann had no doubt that if she could resurrect her poor husband and chastise him for what he'd done, she would. Still, he couldn't help but comment, “I think he got the worse end of the deal.”

She looked at him with a slight lift to one corner of her mouth. “So you feel he has been sufficiently punished for his actions?”

“I would say being dead is enough.”

“Ah, yes, but dead men are unable to regret.”

The butler reappeared and with a bow announced a visitor. Johann stepped back from view of the door, but there was nowhere for him to hide.

The Marquis de Monceau strode in and walked directly to Madame, giving her a passionate kiss.

And here's our first suspect.
His dark brown hair was pulled back into a simple ribbon, and he wore an outdated velvet coat that would have looked ridiculous on anyone but him.

Johann tried to gather his wits about him—what was he doing here? And why was he kissing her like that? One would think a lover would be more discreet with someone else in the room. Johann hadn't seen the marquis since the previous summer, when Iris had broken one of the marquis's statues after it attacked her and he had then essentially run them out of the city.

The marquis stepped back and looked at her. She gasped and waved a hand in Johann's direction, but the nobleman didn't seem to notice.

“Ah, Daphne, I am greatly disheartened by your husband's death.”

Johann decided to rescue her by clearing his throat and throwing himself from the proverbial crepe pan into the fire. “You certainly don't look disheartened. Or is that how you greet all your female friends?”

The marquis sighed with exaggerated shoulder slump. “You as well? Daphne, you promised me you'd be discreet about us and tell me if you wanted to bring a third party into our games.”

“No!” Johann and Madame said at the same time.

“I tried to tell you,” the widow said, “but you just came in without giving me the chance. Where is that butler? He should have told you I have company.”

“He said you were alone.”

“He was trying to make sure you were distracted.” Johann dashed to the nearest window and saw the top of the butler's head over the wall. “I suspect he is up to no good, Madame. You should go somewhere safe.”

“But where?”

“Come to my townhouse,” the marquis said. “It is very secure. You know I do everything to ensure the safety of my treasures.” He glared at Johann. “Unless my guests do something destructive to them.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Johann said but quickly added, “and I'm sure Mademoiselle McTavish also meant no harm. She said what happened was an accident. But this is irrelevant. You should take Madame and go.”

“We will speak further of this,” the marquis told him. “I did not know you were in the city. I'd heard rumors, but I knew you would not be able to resist performing, so when I didn't hear of you on stage, I thought they must be false.”

“Well, surprise.”

The marquis tapped a finger on his lips. “You may make up for the damage, or try to, by giving me and Madame a private concert this afternoon. Would that suit you, Daphne?”

She smiled, and Johann tried not to groan. He hoped the private concert would be of the musical type, but by now he had enough of an idea what the marquis and Madame would be up to.

“I'm afraid I'm in rehearsal for a show,” Johann said. “As you said, can't resist the stage forever.”

“Ah, but as you know, I can make your life miserable here in the city. This afternoon, my townhouse, at two o'clock. You may go.”

Johann tucked the letters into his waistcoat and bowed to Madame. “
A bientot
, then.”

The curve of her lips suggested a lizard about to snatch a bug, and he tried not to dash too quickly out of the office. He wished he had some way to tell the detective to apprehend the butler and was relieved to see Davidson talking to the man when he reached the sidewalk.

* * * * *

Marie wasn't sure what to do once Frederic left. She knew she needed to learn her lines, but she was reluctant to go into the theatre, where memories piled on top of each other, both courtesy of the ghost and of her own mind. She walked through the alley to the side street and looked along the deserted boulevard, quiet for this time of day, even on a Sunday morning. Typically there would be some traffic—church-goers who hadn't given up their faith like their government had given up on them.

Then it hit her. She had walked outside without looking at the sky.

Marie stalked as quickly as her skirts would allow to the front of the church next door to the theatre. Between its yard and the theatre and townhouse's front gardens, there was space enough to see in either direction, especially since the trees had lost their leaves. The national guardsmen didn't give her any notice beyond approving gazes. There, in the east, was a plume of smoke.

But what does it mean?

She looked around to see if someone, anyone, was outside, but the street remained deserted. The naked trees reached their branches toward each other and quivered in the breeze. A sense of aloneness and exposure descended on her, and she fled to the nearest structure, the church.

The front door had long been barred once the priests left and the military moved in, but Marie knew of a secret door between it and the theatre. At one point, it had been the continuation of a secret passage before the alley had been cut and the portico built. As there wasn't an obvious entrance, there were no guards there. It looked like masons had shored up the entrance with brick, but Marie pressed two of them, and it swung inward with a creak.

Gratified that no one had apparently used the door recently and fearful someone might have heard it, Marie inched it closed to minimize the noise. The slick cool of the church enveloped her, and she closed her eyes to allow them to adjust to the gloom. The room she stood in had formerly been the sacristy and held the scents of dry stone with a lingering smoky and herbal overtone of incense.

Marie opened her eyes when her nose caught the whiff of something more acrid.

That's not incense.

She knew the army was using the church for storage, but she hadn't made the connection until now. She wandered into the nave and saw that where there had formerly been pews, there were stacked boxes of guns and barrels of gunpowder.

Marie put her hand to her stomach at the thought,
This place is a bomb.
She could only imagine what would happen if someone lit a fuse in here—it would take out the church and the theatre and possibly the townhouse. Whereas the possibility was remote if the French held the city, if the Prussians managed to invade, they'd want to seize it. And the French would rather blow up their own city than let the enemy have more weapons.

A hard edge let Marie know that her thoughts had driven her to back into a large crate, and she steadied it. Not that it needed support—she did—and her mind whirled through the possible meanings of the morning's quiet and what they could mean for her own family's safety. Not just hers and Lucille's but also Iris and Edward, Patrick O'Connell and the doctor, and even the detestable Bledsoe who counted her previous kisses against her.

Where is he, anyway?

She hadn't seen him leave that morning, but he wasn't there for breakfast. Neither was Iris.

Oh, God, Iris.

Had she gone to the museum? What if fighting or riots broke out in the street and she was trapped?

Calculation and strategy replaced panic.
First thing, see who's at the townhouse and if anyone has any news.

With that course decided, she slipped back out of the church, careful to ensure the secret door clicked locked behind her. She walked into the alley and almost into a national guardsman, who looked about her age.

“Best be careful, Mademoiselle,” he told her. “The peasants in the area want to get at what's in the church.”

“Spiritual solace?” she asked with a bright, innocent smile she'd used often enough it didn't prompt any one role to appear.

He chuckled. “Solace of some kind, that's certain. Best get home. Things are heating up outside the city, and the emperor wants everyone to be safe.”

Or out of the way where they can't see his mistakes.
But Marie only nodded and turned toward the servant's entrance of the theatre.

“Wait, Mademoiselle.” He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “But if you would like to offer me some comfort, we change shifts at six. I saw you in the alley with the violinist earlier.”

Marie snatched her hand back. “You have mistaken me for a different kind of woman, Monsieur.”

He held up his hands. “I did not mean to insult you.” He rubbed his eyes. “I'm sorry, I'm stupid about this sort of thing.”

“Yes, you are.” She stalked away before she said anything else to him that could come back against her later and tried to convince herself the cold wind explained the tears that bubbled up from the ashamed place inside her.

A shadow overhead made her glance at the sky and gasp. The airship passed so quickly she wasn't sure if she'd seen it, and it was too high up to hear, but it left behind a vapor trail. She lifted her skirts and ran to the townhouse.

* * * * *

Once Davidson left, Iris turned to the manuscript on Monsieur Firmin's desk. It continued to push at her, and she held back to prepare her mind for whatever it might assault her with. She typically had to reach with her mind to penetrate the fog of thoughts around an object, not defend against the sensations. She tried to push away the memories of the first time an object had been so insistent. The poison holder that contained the last note her father wrote to her had called to her like that, but with more frightening insistence. She later came to find it was from the danger she was in.

No time to dwell on useless memories. I have to concentrate on what I'm doing now, not that I won't be having Christmas in the house in Huntington Village with Father and Cook and Sophie, that traitor. All right, maybe I won't miss her that much.

The betrayal of her beloved maid, who had served Iris's mother since childhood and then assisted with Iris's care, still stung. She'd seen Sophie at Jeremy Scott's funeral, all traces of affection erased from her beautiful face when Iris told her she had a maid of sorts and had learned to do for herself, and no, she didn't want Sophie to come to Paris with her. Rejecting her had felt like a victory at the time, but now emptiness replaced vindication. Iris was in a place that could soon turn into a war zone. Sophie was safe in England with her husband.