The Shadow Conspiracy II

by Phyllis Irene Radford

“Today we have tomato soup, oyster stew, chicken pot pie, shepherd’s pie, chicken celery salad, crab salad, cherry pie, chess pie, chocolate cake, coconut pie, strawberries and cream, and a variety of pastries.” The voice was pleasant enough, but detached. Any human would have taken pride in being able to rattle off the menu so flawlessly.

  Christophe raised an eyebrow. “Café au lait?”

  The automaton blinked. “We have coffee and milk.”

  “Can the milk be heated?”

  Another blink. “I will ask. For you, madam?”

  “I will have café au lait also. And a croissant, if you have one,” Marie said.

  “Yes, madam. Would you like anything else, sir?”

  Christophe shook his head. The automaton flashed its soulless smile and departed.

  “Rather an expensive waitress,” Christophe mused, gazing after it.

  “But reliable, and very efficient.”

  Christophe shifted his chair, watching the machine visit another table. “Perhaps she is also a curiosity, to attract custom.”

  The waitress returned with a tray from which she swiftly unloaded a coffee pot, a small pitcher of steaming milk, two cups, spoons, sugar, and Marie’s croissant, arranging them on the tiny table without hesitation. “May I bring you anything else?”

  Christophe smiled. “Not just now, thank you.”

  Marie watched the automaton go away while Christophe clucked over the improvised café au lait. Apparently the single waitress was serving all of the tables. Marie noted that it moved swiftly between tables or going in and out of the bakery, but appeared to have infinite patience when taking orders.

  Well, of course. What cause has a machine to be impatient?

  “Shall I pour for you, ma chérie?”

  “Oui. Merci.”

  The coffee smelled wonderful. Marie watched Christophe blend it, achieving just the right colour despite the awkwardness of the large pot and smaller pitcher. She smiled at him as she lifted her cup.

  “Thank you, my love.”

  “Shall we call upon your friend after this?”

  He knew quite well that Marie was not acquainted with Madame Dessins, but he was cautious, her dear Christophe.

  “I sent a note informing her of when we would arrive, and asking her to let us know when it would be convenient for us to call.”

  Another ship’s whistle startled her into looking up. Its note — actually several notes, an appealing chord — was higher pitched and not as loud as the other ship’s. Marie saw a paddle-wheeled boat, like the riverboats that ran up and down the Mississippi, gliding into place at one of the docks. Its white-painted, ornate galleries gleamed amid the darker wood and metal of the other boats. Before the whistle’s echo had died away, music began to fill the air: a schottische, gaily rendered.

  Christophe smiled. “A calliope.”

  “What is a riverboat doing here?”

  “Je ne sais pas. A plaisant diversion, non?”

  Marie tore a corner from her croissant and ate it as she watched people disembark from the boat. There were only a few passengers. The boat’s main business must be transporting cargo, judging by the feverish activity of at least a dozen automatons who were unloading large crates from the lower deck onto the dock.

  All the while the music continued. Marie glanced toward the calliope on the top deck of the steamer — what the riverboat men called the Texas deck — wondering if the musician was not tired.

  No one sat at the keyboard.

  “Christophe!”

  “Hm?”

  “Look!”

  She pointed to the calliope. Christophe tilted his head.

  “Ah. It must be automatic. How quaint.”

  “Why automate a calliope?”

  “Why not? The boat has plenty of steam.”

  She frowned. It seemed wrong, though she could not answer Christophe’s question. Music performed by a machine? Music came from the soul.

  Bah. She was thinking too hard. There was no reason music could not be made by a machine. What was a music box, after all? This could be considered a larger version of the same.

  Yet it felt wrong. It troubled her. A keyboard that needed no hands upon the keys. Why had its owner dispensed with the human musician?

  Her gaze, which had drifted while she mused, fell across that of someone looking back at her. Standing on the Texas deck, apparently having just emerged from the luxury cabin there, was a man dressed all in white. His clothes were elegant and perfectly tailored. In his hands were a wide-brimmed hat such as the plantationers in Louisiana wore, and a brass-topped walking stick. He gazed toward the patisserie — indeed, Marie felt as if he were gazing straight at her — and her unease increased.

  “Would you like more coffee, madam? Sir?”

  Marie turned to the waitress. “What is a riverboat doing here?”

  “That is the Calypso, madam. It runs from here across the bay to Whiteston.”

  Christophe raised an eyebrow. “And what is in Whiteston?”

  “The White Milling Company. They produce fine fabrics.” The waitress paused for the space of three seconds, then looked at Marie. “Would you like more coffee?”

  Marie glanced at Christophe. “No, thank you.”

  “Just the bill,” Christophe said, smiling up at the waitress.

  “Twenty-seven cents.”

  Christophe took out his purse and counted the coins onto the table top. The waitress swept them into her hand.

  “Thank you. Please let me know if you’d like anything else.”

  The automaton picked up Marie’s empty plate, but left the other dishes. Marie was impressed, for there was only a little café left in her cup, but she did indeed want it.

  “Any more in the pot?” she asked.

  “Yes, but the milk is gone. Shall I call her back?”

  “No. And it is not a ‘her,’ it is a machine.”

  She held out her cup. Christophe chuckled as he poured coffee into it. “Simpler to say ‘her.’”

  The black coffee was strong; Marie added a lump of sugar and stirred it. She looked back toward the Calypso and saw the man in white strolling toward the patisserie. On his arm was a woman — a quadroon, Marie thought. Café with too much milk. She wore an American style dress, but on her head was a turban of purple and gold and orange, knotted a particular way.

  Marie tensed. Here was the voudon she had wondered about. Galveston, or perhaps Whiteston, had a queen.

  She swallowed, glancing away as the woman’s gaze met hers. She had no cause to interfere in matters here. She was queen in her own city — a much more important city. She would remain disengaged.

  She sipped the coffee, but it was too strong without the milk. She set her cup down and looked at Christophe, who was gazing appreciatively at the queen.

  “Shall we go?”

  A flicker of disappointment showed in his eyes, but he nodded. “If you are finished.”

  “I am.”

  She rose and took Christophe’s arm, but before they reached the gate the man in white and the queen were there, being greeted by a second man — probably the proprietor — in a most ingratiating manner. The queen’s eyes were heavy, and she leaned upon her escort’s arm as if she were weary. Even so, Marie could sense her power.

  “Colette!” the host said, turning toward the courtyard. “Your best table.”

  Marie raised a brow. She had not thought that any tables were free, let alone the best, but the waitress led the gentleman in white and the queen toward the table that Marie and Christophe had just left. It had already been cleared and set afresh.

  Christophe offered his arm. Marie took it, and as they strolled away the calliope started up again, this time playing a very different music. It was an old French song, a foolish little song, “Au Clair de la Lune.”

  Marie paused to look back at the Calypso, thinking it an odd choice of music for the instrument. She caught sight of the gentleman in white, now seated at the table. He was gla
ring — with unmistakable fury — toward the steamboat.

  Marie turned away, heart racing. Why would the boat’s owner be angry at the music that it played, if it was automated? She risked looking back at the boat, confirming that no human sat at the keyboard.

  “Mon cher,” she said, “I would like another croissant. May we step into the patisserie?”

  “I do intend to buy you dinner, you know.”

  “Indulge me.”

  Christophe looked at her and gave a slight shrug. “All right, my love.”

  As they entered the through a side door, the smells of coffee and hot bread enveloped them. Marie glanced toward the windows. The queen had her head bowed. The man was still staring at the boat.

  “A croissant for the lady, please,” Christophe said to a harried-looking young man behind the pastry cases, who fetched the bread and handed it, wrapped in bakery paper, to Marie.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Excuse me, can you tell me who the gentleman in white is, out in the courtyard? I have the impression he is someone important.”

  The youth glanced toward the windows. “That is Mr. White, the owner.”

  “Oh! He owns this establishment?”

  “And a number of others along the waterfront, ma’am.”

  “So he is important! And that is his wife?”

  “No, ma’am. That is Moma Shanti.”

  Marie blinked at him. “What an interesting name.”

  The young man’s eyes flickered, then he turned to Christophe. “It’s five cents, sir.”

  Christophe paid, and the young man bustled away into the back of the bakery. Marie took Christophe’s arm once more and they departed, strolling back toward their hotel in silence. Not until they had turned the corner did Christophe speak.

  “Did you get what you wanted? I presume it was not the bread.”

  “Something is not right with Mr. White’s boat. Did you see his anger?”

  “Non, je regrète. He is a rich white man, I do not find them particularly interesting.”

  “Ah, but one should always take an interest in powerful people. And he is very powerful, yet it seems he is not in control of the music the Calypso is playing.”

  Christophe paused, raising his head to listen, then gave her a curious glance. “It is an odd choice for a calliope.”

  Even as they stood listening, the song ended. A moment’s pause, then another piece began — a lively, popular tune. Unexceptional.

  She felt as if something had just eluded her grasp. Leaning on Christophe’s arm, she listened to the calliope as they strolled along the Strand back to their hotel.

  Not more than an hour later, a knock fell upon the door of their hotel room. Marie, who sat by the window watching the boats, glanced at Christophe who was lying on the bed, reading a newspaper. He rose and went to the door.

  “A message for Mrs. Paris, sir.”

  The voice was young, a boy’s. Marie continued gazing at the Calypso, while the jingle of Christophe’s coin purse told her he had paid the boy. He came to the window and dropped a folded note into her lap.

  “There you are, Madame Paris.”

  She ignored the note of annoyance in his voice. He knew perfectly well that she only used her married name when she wished to remain somewhat anonymous. If he disliked it, he could invite her to change that name.

  Not that she wished to. Their arrangement was entirely convenable. She picked up the note and unfolded it.

  Dear Mrs. Paris,

  I will be in a private parlour at Tremont House until five o’clock today, if you wish to discuss the matter to which you referred in your note. Ask at the desk and they will show you to me.

  Sincerely,

  — M. Dessins

  Marie’s brows rose. “She is here. Bien. I am going downstairs.”

  “Do you wish me to come with you?”

  She hesitated. She had expected to be summoned to Madame Dessins’s house, not to receive her here. Had she been going out into the city she would have taken Christophe with her. Here, though....

  “No. I will not be far .”

  “I shall miss you terribly,” Christophe said, returning to the bed and stretching out.

  The parlor to which Marie was shown contained a table at which a solitary white lady was seated, gazing at an untouched cup of tea.

  After a moment the lady looked up. Her eyes were brown and wide. Her hair — streaked with silver — was tidily coiffured, though rather plainly. Marie could have arranged the rich, thick curls in a way that no man could ignore.

  “Mrs. Dessins?”

  “Yes. You are Mrs. Paris?” The lady spoke with a slight English accent.

  “I am.”

  A second’s hesitation before the lady gestured to a chair. Marie chose to ignore what might merely be shyness, and seated herself.

  “Thank you for seeing me, madame. No doubt you wish to know why a stranger would seek you out upon the matter I mentioned in my note.”

  The lady shifted in her chair, “There is only one thing I wish to know,” she said in a voice low and quavering with passion. “Where is my husband?”

  Taken aback, Marie stiffened. Madame Dessins’s eyes blazed with anger.

  “I have avoided a hundred others like you, Mrs. Paris. All hungering for the riches they imagine the ability to transfer souls will give them. You will get no more from me than they. Now, I happen to be well acquainted with the mayor of Galveston, and if you do not restore my husband to me at once, he will see to it that your stay here is longer and far more uncomfortable than you anticipated.”

  Marie was too astonished by this tirade to be angered by the threat that concluded it. Seeing that Madame Dessins was both enraged and unafraid — though there was a deep underlying anguish in her voice — Marie answered cautiously.

  “I know nothing of your husband, madame. I do not seek to profit from your help. I seek it on behalf of those who are enslaved. On behalf of automata who are ensouled, but who are denied the rights of humanity.”

  A hint of uncertainty came into the lady’s gaze. Marie felt a rush of compassion for her. She was famous, after all, for the book she had written. No doubt Madame Shelley, now Madame Dessins, was weary of curiosity seekers. But Marie had been told that Madame Dessins also knew the science behind the fiction. She had herself performed the transfer of a soul to another body.

  “I have read Frankenstein, Madame, and I greatly admire your ideas.”

  “And would seek to profit from them? Folly.”

  “I seek no profit, but to free souls that have become entrapped in foreign hosts and are now enslaved. If you would lend your voice in support of such souls’ right to freedom —”

  Madame Dessins’s brows twitched together in a frown and she spoke in a low, angry voice. “I am most concerned at present with my husband’s freedom! What have you done with him?”

  Marie raised a hand. “Pardon, madame, but you mistake me. I have never met your husband, nor —”

  “Your associates, then. Whoever it was who abducted him.” She gave a tiny gasp, and seemed to struggle for a moment to maintain her composure.

  This was deep trouble. Marie abandoned her errand, laid her hand over the lady’s wrist, and spoke in the voice she reserved for her work, a voice that rang with the truth of her words, with the power of her soul.

  “Hear me. I will help however I can. I neither took your husband nor arranged for him to be taken. I will help, but you must trust me.”

  Madame Dessins met her gaze. For a long moment they were still. Marie saw a shift in the other’s eyes, a flicker of hope.

  Footsteps out in the hall drew Marie’s notice. She withdrew her hand. “Where may we speak more privately? You could come to my room —”

  Madame Dessins drew herself up, straightening her shoulders. “No. My house.”

  “Bien. It is far to walk?”

  “I have a carriage.”

  “Will you call for it, then, and wait here while I inform
my companion? Unless you will allow me to bring him....”

  “I will wait.”

  Marie hastened upstairs. In her room she found Christophe by the window. He turned his head to smile at her.

  “The Calypso is leaving.”

  Marie felt a tug of disappointment, and glanced out of the window to see the white steamboat sliding out into the bay, but she had no time for boats. She pulled the pen and ink and a page of paper from the drawer.

  “I am going to Madame Dessins’s house. This is the address. I hope to return in time for dinner, but if not —”

  “What is the matter, ma chérie?”

  “She is in trouble. Her husband has been abducted.”

  “Dieu! Shall I come with you?”

  “No. I must earn her trust. At first she thought I was seeking her out to make demands on behalf of the abductors.”

  Christophe frowned. “I do not like you going alone.”

  Marie put away the pen and ink, then kissed him. “I will be safe. She is in trouble, cher, and I want to help.”

  “I thought you came here to ask her help.”

  “Yes. Well.” Marie picked up her bonnet from the table near the door and set it on her head, looking in the mirror as she tied the ribbons. “Perhaps she will be grateful, if we can get her husband back.”

  “If you have not returned by dark I will come after you.”

  “Bien.”

  She turned from the mirror and kissed his cheek. He caught her in a fierce embrace, displacing her bonnet.

  “Non, non, cher. A bientôt,” she said, gently pulling away from him. She straightened her bonnet, summoned a smile of more bravery than she felt, and went out. On the landing, she paused and slid her hand into the pocket of her skirt, where she carried a gris-gris for protection. Her fingers closed around the little charm.

  “Oya, walk with me and watch over me,” she murmured. “Help me to help this woman.”

  She inhaled deeply, feeling the calm of the higher spirits wash into her. When she was steady again, she continued down to the parlour.

  Madame Dessins went downstairs with her to the front entrance. Through the glass front doors Marie saw that a carriage stood waiting outside.