The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2)

by Amanda DeWees

  “As in man, woman, man, woman? I think that’s only at dinner parties. But if that is your preference, I’ve no objection.”

  As everyone took their places at the table and clasped hands, I requested silence and brought my thoughts to the building that we inhabited now. The structure was less than thirty years old, but it was possible it had been built on the site of a tragedy. Paris had seen so much revolution and bloodshed. Was a long-ago calamity infusing the theater now? Or had some more recent instance of violence or heartbreak set its mark upon the place?

  “Everyone, please bring your thoughts to this theater,” I said. “Open your mind to any message that may be trying to reach us.” Raising my voice, I addressed the room. “If any spirit lingers here, please tell us your will. We are ready to hear you and to help bring you rest if we can.”

  I saw Marianne catch Philippe’s eye and smile. I supposed I could hardly be surprised that she would not take an endeavor like this seriously. Nor had I until Roderick’s mother’s spirit had chosen to speak through me.

  When I cleared my throat slightly, the younger actress found me watching her and looked abashed. “It may help you concentrate if you close your eyes,” I suggested, and she obeyed.

  It might help my own concentration, for that matter. Letting my eyes close, I tried to follow Clarette’s suggestion and reach out with my inner ear, making myself receptive to any influences in the vicinity. It was more difficult than it sounded. I found myself straining for actual sounds, when what I needed to hear would not be audible in the normal sense.

  There were creaks and rustles of fabric as my companions shifted in their chairs. A soft cough. A stifled sneeze. What could I hear besides? Faint noises of construction, the slight wisp of music. Perhaps I should focus on images. I let my memory summon up different areas of the theater, but the most vivid one was the room that I now inhabited. At the same time, I tried to visualize a barrier between me and the spirit realm, a shield that would protect me and prevent my energies from being sapped.

  Perhaps it was preventing any spirit from reaching me, though, for my efforts continued to produce no effect. I began to grow frustrated. I found that I wanted to kick the table over. Not only that, but to stamp it into bits, to drive my fist into someone’s face. I could feel my features contort, my brows drawing together in anger.

  Now a righteous rage swelled within me, a fierce sense of betrayal and disbelief, all submerged in a grief that made my throat close in sympathy.

  I had done it after all. This was not my own anger but an alien feeling growing in my heart. I had summoned something.

  “Speak to me,” I whispered, trying to remain open to the visitant while shielding my deepest self. “Speak through me.”

  Still I could evoke no sense of the presence except an impression that it was masculine. No image, mental or otherwise, came to me; when I opened my eyes all I saw were the faces of my fellow actors, solemn now and pale in the light of the lamp.

  But I could feel someone taking hold. The muscles in my shoulders tensed, and my hands tightened on my neighbors’ as if trying to clench into fists. An angry exhalation burst from my lips. A wisp of fear brushed me at how thoroughly this spirit was possessing me, but I could not let myself resist—not yet.

  Then words tore from my lips. “Je suis innocent! I am innocent!”

  I thought someone gasped, but more words were tumbling out now. In a hoarse, deep tone that rasped in my throat, the visitant said in French, “The witness lied. He was paid for his testimony. I am innocent!” My hands jerked away from the ones that held them and struck the table an emphatic blow.

  Helaine gave a little cry and rose from her chair, one hand going to her breast. At the same time, I felt the presence ebb and fall away. My stinging palms and burning throat were the only lingering signs that a spirit had visited—that is, apart from the startled seriousness on the faces of those who stared at me.

  “How did you do that?” Marianne exclaimed.

  I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself. That turbulent presence had shaken me a bit with the force of his emotion.

  “I cannot explain it,” I told Marianne. “For some reason I am receptive to some restless spirits.”

  “We need light,” Gustave muttered, and rose to turn up the gas jets. I saw him cross himself as he rose from the table.

  Kenton, too, looked shaken. “Sybil, I had no idea... are you all right?”

  Wiggling my shoulders as much as my close-fitting afternoon dress would permit, trying to shake off the last of the tension, I discovered that my tense muscles were the only lingering physical effects. I did not feel depleted or exhausted. The medium’s suggestion appeared to have worked. “I’m quite well,” I said.

  Helaine looked the most unsettled of all of them, which was not surprising, considering how her skepticism had just been overturned. “The man who spoke through you,” she said, and her voice was not quite steady. “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know, I’m afraid.”

  “He didn’t”—she made a vague gesture—“convey his name to you? Do they not identify themselves, these spirits?”

  I shook my head. “When they speak through me, they usually don’t seem to be aware of me at all. They aren’t conversing with me. I am more like a megaphone, a way of amplifying their voices.”

  “Did you have any sense of how long he has been dead?” Estelle asked. Like the others, she looked shaken, and her question was respectful. If she had been an unbeliever before, she was one no longer. “Do you know how he died?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “I shall have to do some research, I suppose, and find out whether a court of law ever convened on this space. The spirit sounded as if he had been condemned on false evidence. Kenton, I’m sorry not to have produced a more helpful answer for you.”

  Though he looked pensive, he did not seem disappointed, which I was relieved to see. He had said no more than “Let us think—” before a little sound caught our attention, and I looked around in time to see Helaine slump to the floor. She had fainted.

  With an exclamation, Kenton knelt by her and took one of her hands in his. Estelle took the other and began to chafe her wrist.

  “Gustave, see if you can find my smelling salts,” she instructed. “The poor lady, I’m not surprised she was taken so. It was a right shock to hear that—that thing talking.”

  “I’ll bring her a glass of water—or brandy,” Philippe said.

  “I shall go with you,” Marianne said promptly. They were almost out the door when Philippe turned and asked, “Sybil, would you like something?”

  I declined and knelt down by Helaine. How pale she looked lying there. If she did not regain consciousness soon, we should probably loosen her laces. But soon her eyes opened, and they focused on us without any vagueness. Kenton and Estelle left off chafing her wrists.

  “Miss Ingram,” she said.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  She waved away our attempts to help her sit up. “Tell me,” she said, her eyes steady on mine. “When the dead speak through you, do they speak the truth?”

  “I believe so,” I answered. “At least, what they think to be true.”

  Gazing into space, she shook her head. “All these years of playing characters who see ghosts,” she said distantly, “and I never believed it possible.” Her gaze seized mine again. “Does it frighten you when they contact you in this way?”

  “Not usually. Often I feel sorry for them, the unhappy creatures.” The recollection of Mrs. Spiegel’s aunt’s specter rose before me with its yawning pits for eyes, and I repressed a shudder. “Sometimes it can be a bit... unnerving.”

  “Yes, I would imagine so.” She fell silent, and I had the impression that she was undergoing an internal struggle of some sort.

  But if she was, I was not to know the outcome. For all she had time to say was “Miss Ingram, I truly believe—” before Gustave bustled in with smelling salts, Philippe rig
ht behind him with a decanter and glass. Kenton beckoned Philippe over, and the young man poured a drink.

  “Here you are, now,” Kenton told Helaine gently, and helped her sit up. “Just drink this, my dear, and you’ll feel ever so much better.”

  After a moment’s hesitation she took the glass. Drinking its contents did bring some color back to her face. Then, with Kenton and Estelle supporting her, she got to her feet once more.

  “What were you about to say?” I asked as we helped her straighten her clothing and smooth her hair.

  She gave me an artificial smile. “I cannot even remember. It must not have been important.” She seemed to have regained her composure in an amazingly short time, and her manner was brisk when she said, “Thank you all for looking after me during that little embarrassment. Now, I think I shall have a rest in my dressing room, unless you need me right away.”

  “Of course not, my dear,” Kenton said. “Rest as long as you like.”

  His gentle smile faded as soon as she had left the room, and he addressed the group in a more authoritative tone. “I thank you all for joining us,” he said to the group. “It has been a memorable experience, even if it was no more than a remnant of an actor in performance. I realize now that I ought not to have introduced this distraction, however. From this point on, I plan to set my superstitious fears aside, and I ask you to do the same. I want you all to devote your energies to the play, and the play alone.”

  He waited until he saw everyone nod, and then he said, “I should like to speak with Sybil now, if you will give us the room.”

  Quietly the others processed out, although I suspected that they would not remain quiet for long. We had given them much to discuss.

  Once the door closed behind the last of them, I said, “I hope you are not too disappointed, Kenton, but I have no control over what spirits choose to contact me.”

  “Disappointed, not at all. On the contrary, I am overwhelmed at what you achieved. I was asking you to take more upon yourself than I realized.”

  “We may still discover something useful. Perhaps if we could find out the history of the property...”

  He shook his head. “Please don’t go to the trouble, my dear. I think it is best to drop this business altogether. Seeing how gravely it upset Helaine brought home to me that it is probably wisest for mere mortals not to tamper with matters beyond the veil. It was a mistake for me to give way to my own worries and superstitions.”

  “I should like to find out more, though. That poor soul—”

  “Sybil.”

  His resonant voice held the warning of sternness, and I fell silent. “I will not run the risk of you or anyone in my cast being distracted or distressed,” he told me. “For one thing, working with spectacles like the ones in this production demands the greatest concentration if one is to avoid accidents and injuries. It isn’t safe for your attention to be divided. You are in agreement?”

  “Of course.”

  Even though my response was grudging, he gave me an encouraging smile. “I am delighted to hear it. Moreover, you needn’t worry about that poor soul, as you call it. I happen to know that the structure that preceded this theater was another theater. Until it burned, it stood for seventy years.”

  “Oh,” I said, stymied.

  He rested a hand on my shoulder, and his expression was benign and paternal. “Think of all the emotions this location has absorbed in the last century. Can you truly be certain it was not simply an echo of a past performance that you summoned?”

  I had read about the theory that places could absorb the impressions of strong emotions, such as those accompanying violent acts, and that sometimes what we called ghosts were no more than these remembrances playing out in visible form, like photographs but in motion. Although it did not explain all of the spirits I had encountered—Roderick’s mother, for one—I had to admit that I could not discount the hypothesis entirely.

  “I suppose it’s a possibility,” I conceded. “Are you certain it is best to let the matter drop?”

  “Entirely, my dear.” He released my shoulder and strode to the door, which he opened with a courtly flourish. “Let us concentrate on the present, not the past.”

  He was my employer, after all, so it behooved me to cooperate. And he was quite right about the danger of working with elaborate spectacles in a distracted frame of mind. All the same, the remembrance of that cry for justice lingered in my ears for a long time after.

  Opening night was soon upon us. It was strange not to accompany Roderick to the theater but to arrive with the general public—and Mrs. Vise.

  “Indecent, I call it,” she grumbled. She had resolutely refused to wear anything festive, and in one of her ordinary dark wool dresses, without so much as the addition of a bit of lace, she looked somber indeed against the background of so much bright silk and gleaming satin. Even the gentlemen, in their evening apparel, had white shirts and gloves to offset the black of their suits.

  “Which part do you find indecent?” I inquired. “The way people are dressed, or the fact that we are shortly to see a fictitious adventure acted out on a stage?”

  She sniffed. “All of it. I still say it’s immodest for a woman to stand up in front of an audience and strut around singing and declaiming!”

  “Yet my doing so is what earned the money that pays your salary,” I said—but in an undertone, for I did not want to spoil my good mood by engaging her in an argument.

  My caution might have been unnecessary, so absorbed was she in the scandalous parade of humanity that streamed below our seats in the first tier of balconies.

  I was pleasantly conscious of eyes upon us, and not just out of curiosity at the woman gaping so undisguisedly by my side. I knew I had been recognized, for I heard a few people speaking my name in whispers. But I was also attracting admiring glances simply because of my appearance. My diamonds and opals from Roderick glinted in the bright light of the chandeliers, and my hair was a towering work of art, for I had visited a salon de beauté to have my hair dressed in a more elaborate style than I was capable of creating without assistance. The gown I wore... well, I shall say only that I was eager for Roderick to see me in it.

  At present he was assembled with the rest of the orchestra in the pit. With the aid of my opera glasses I could see him frowning while making adjustments to the tuning of his violin. Before a performance he tended to be absorbed in what lay ahead; I had learned not to try to talk to him at such times and to wait until after the performance was finished, at which time he would be ready, even eager, for conversation.

  For my own part, I was nearly as excited as I would have been had I been performing tonight myself. The opulence of the theater wove a spell of glamour, with the ornate gilt and velvet décor offering up a setting like a jewel box for the dazzling women in their gowns of sapphire blue, ruby red, emerald green, and amethyst purple. The fragrances of expensive French perfumery, the fresh nosegays the women carried, and the eaux de cologne of the gentlemen mingled to create an incomparable atmosphere of luxury and elegance.

  How different, I reflected, from the backstage world, where all the hard work was being carried out in an atmosphere very far from elegant. But onstage, all the audience would see was the illusion the actors created.

  And what an illusion it was! From the opening arc-light sunrise effect to the denouement with its unmaskings and happy reunions, the play worked its charm. The music played a major role in this, and my heart swelled so much with pride in Roderick’s work that I thought my corset laces might give way. As always, watching him mesmerized me. The way he used his entire body in his performance, moving with the violin and bow, his eyes closed as if he was entirely consumed by the music he was producing... he captivated not just me but the whole audience. During certain parts of the show, of course, I was unable to watch him, for whenever the young hero played his violin, Philippe merely pretended to play his instrument while Roderick played for him just offstage, in the wings.


  The crowning spectacle of act one, the storm at sea, woke gasps and cries of awe from the audience. And in act two, when the hero chivied the villain up to the castle ramparts and the two locked swords as the false thunderstorm raged around them, the applause was so loud that it drowned out the dialogue in places. Even Mrs. Vise sat forward eagerly in her seat, her hands braced upon the balcony ledge, caught up in the spell of the story.

  And Julia? It was difficult for me to be objective about her performance. Her interpretation of the heroine, as I had noted during rehearsals, was more tempestuous than the script really demanded... or encouraged. But her passionate readings of Elfrida’s moments of determination went over well, and if she was just a touch petulant during the moments of pathos, I do not think many noticed. As always she sang beautifully, although she did sneak in a few of the musical embellishments Roderick had tried to discourage. Certainly she was exquisite in the 18th-century costumes, and several times the audience called for encores. Judging from the volume of the applause at the end—and the quantities of flowers thrown at her feet—it was safe to call her performance a success.

  At the reception in the lobby afterward everyone was in a buoyant mood. Roderick arrived with his eyes full of electricity and his hair practically standing on end, and the moment he appeared he was swarmed by people wishing to congratulate or meet him. I accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter, made conversation, and composed myself to patience, sparing a moment to wonder why Kenton would squander any of Fournier’s money on such a lavish celebration when he was worried about repaying him. When I considered it further, though, I realized that the reception was a demonstration for the public of the theater’s success, and showing a prosperous face to the world was a wise precaution in this or any business.

  I sent Mrs. Vise back to our hotel, much to her relief; she had looked almost alarmed at the sight of actors and actresses, whose faces bore traces of makeup and cold cream, jubilantly welcomed with congratulations from friends and followers. Julia’s entrance brought a wave of applause even louder than Roderick’s, and her air was as gracious as a queen’s as she accepted what was due to her. She was wearing cerise, with many glittering jewels—though not, I observed, those that I knew to have been given her by Roderick. I would not have been surprised to learn that she had pawned those now that she had lost interest in winning him back.