“I hadn’t looked at it that way.” When I imagined such a scenario, picturing his distress gave my heart a pang. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re right, I should have spoken to you beforehand. I suppose I’m still not altogether accustomed to being part of a couple instead of my own woman.”
An impatient flash of his eyes showed that he was not quite mollified. “You’ll always be your own woman,” he said crisply. “I’m not asking you to change. But it hurts me when I feel I can’t trust you.”
Now it was my turn to flare up. “When you say things like that you make me feel as if you expect me to betray you someday, and I don’t think I’ve given you cause to believe that. It seems rather hard on me, don’t you think?”
That silenced him for a moment. “You’re right,” he finally said. “I’m not being fair to you. I thought I’d put the past behind me, but perhaps I haven’t, entirely.”
He held out his hand in silent appeal, and I took it.
“Roderick,” I said tenderly, “I’m not Julia.” Raising his hand to my face, I held it against my cheek. “We shall have decades of marriage in which I will prove it to you, day after day. For now, please remember that I love you with all my heart and want there to be no shadows between us.”
His face cleared, and he kissed me very sweetly. “No shadows,” he said solemnly. “No secrets, no deceptions.”
No deceptions. A realization struck me like a blow to my stomach, and my eyes went wide with dismay.
Nor was this lost on the man before me. “Is there something else you need to tell me?” he asked warily, and I cursed myself for causing him to be wary.
“I lied about my age,” I blurted. “Only by a few months—and not just to you, to everybody, for years now.”
“Slow down,” he said gently. “Start at the beginning.”
I drew in a breath and tried to order my thoughts. “It was when I was appearing in Romeo and Juliet, and Juliet is supposed to be only thirteen, you know. I had just turned twenty, but it seemed important to be able to tell the press that I was still in my teens. So I changed my birth date. It’s been so long now that I truly forget for long stretches of time when my real birthday falls.”
His face was a mask. “So when we met and you told me you were nearing thirty...”
“I was lying to you,” I said dejectedly, “even though I didn’t mean to. I was already thirty. I had just managed to convince myself otherwise.”
“So you are a few months older than you told me you were.”
He didn’t seem angry, which was encouraging. “I’m afraid so,” I said. “Almost five months, in fact.”
For a long moment he looked at me, his eyes slowly warming as he smiled. “Well, I would never be so unchivalrous as to quibble with a beautiful woman about her age,” he said.
I threw my arms around him in relief. “Oh, darling, I’m so glad. It would have broken my heart if that foolish bit of vanity had come between us.”
“You were merely following a hallowed tradition of the fair sex,” he said indulgently, putting his arms around me. “But I’m glad you told me now and not later.”
“Oh?”
“Now I know to remind you to give the proper birth date to the registrar when we get our wedding license.”
I rested my cheek against the stiff front of his evening shirt and heard the beat of his heart. “And when will that be?”
“Not soon enough,” he said, his arms snug and secure around me. “Not nearly soon enough.”
I raised my head to look up at him. “You know,” I said softly, “there is a lock on this door. If you wanted, you could, er, adjust my stocking again.”
“Indeed!” His eyes lit up with mischief. “You enjoyed that, did you?”
“You know I did, you wicked rogue.”
Any plans in that quarter, however, were derailed when there came a knock at the door and Hortense’s voice inquired, “Would you like me to help you change now, Mademoiselle Ingram?”
Finding my own way out of the elaborate 18th-century costume was an impossibility, so I stifled my disappointment and called, “In just a moment, Hortense.”
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
Then an idea struck me, and I asked Roderick archly, “Would you care to stay and watch?”
He pretended to pat back a yawn. “I’ve seen you in your underclothes before,” he said.
I drew back. “If you ever wish to do so again, you’d better mind your manners,” I said with mock indignation.
He flashed a wicked grin at me and stole a kiss. “Pardon me,” he said, and kissed me again. “If you please.” Kiss. “Thank you.”
By then I was laughing almost too much to be kissed, and he opened the door to Hortense. “You may come in now,” he told her.
She did so, and he bade me goodbye and departed. But only seconds later he popped his head back in.
“By the way, Mademoiselle Ingram—”
“What is it now?”
“You were splendid tonight.” He blew me a kiss and disappeared, closing the door behind him.
Laughing, I gestured for Hortense to start on the hooks in the back of my gown. In the mirror I caught a glimpse of her face, and her serious expression confused me for a fraction of a second before the chilling recollection that had been thrust aside while Roderick and I argued and reconciled came rushing back in.
A man was dead. And his murderer, very likely, was someone I knew. The little flame had been an omen after all, marking Fournier for death.
Chapter Twelve
“Hortense,” I said as she unhooked my costume and helped me lift it off over my head, “how did you come to discover Monsieur Fournier’s body?”
She darted a quick glance at me as if weighing how much to tell me. “I was not meeting anyone for a tryst,” she said defensively.
“Goodness, it isn’t my affair even if you were.” How must Julia treat the young woman, that this was her first response to simple curiosity? “You aren’t in any trouble, Hortense, or at least not with me. I’m merely trying to get a clearer picture of what happened tonight.”
She laid the heavy dress aside and set about helping me with the ties and fastenings on the elaborate underclothes, which included a pair of side hoops. “I saw that the dagger you carry in act two was beginning to crack along the handle,” she said, less aggressively now. “I feared it might pinch your skin and injure you, so I asked the accessoiriste for a replacement.”
When I thought back on it, I did recall that it was cracked. “There are more daggers in the prop room?”
“Oh, indeed yes, mademoiselle. Many weapons.”
“That sounds quite dangerous,” I said. I was accustomed to prop weapons, which could never inflict any actual harm—rapiers with foiled tips, broadswords made of wood and incapable of cutting anything, daggers whose flimsy blades would retract into their handles upon the lightest contact. “Is it customary here to use authentic weapons?”
She set aside the panniers. “Do not worry, mademoiselle. All of the blades are blunted. I think some originally belonged to members of the cast and crew who fought with the Communards and did not think it wise to keep them in case their homes were searched.”
“Did many from the theatrical community take part in the uprising?”
She nodded. “Many of the Communards were people I knew... people I miss.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Do you mean you actually had friends who were killed in the uprising?”
Biting her lip, she nodded again. “Either during the fighting itself, or they were executed soon after. Some were sentenced to be transported to Australia and other places. But many of the trials lasted less than thirty seconds before sentence of death was passed. That was what happened to Madame Thiers’s husband.”
“How horrifying!” To lose her husband to such violence, and so swiftly that she had not even had a chance to adjust her mind to the possibility—it was no wonder she had such a tragic air, poor woman.
I was so preoccupied that I hardly noticed as Hortense helped me step out of my petticoats and set about dressing me in my ordinary clothes. Then a new thought occurred to me.
“Did you lose a husband?” I asked with new respect. “Or a father?”
Her eyes met mine for a moment in the mirror, then wavered and fell. “My brother.”
“Oh, Hortense. I am so very sorry.” Unsure of how to frame my next question, I spoke hesitantly. “I hope that in addition to the grief you must feel, his loss did not leave you in a financial predicament.”
“My sister and I get by, mademoiselle, thank you.” Her smile was a touch rueful. “She is the prettier of us two, so she makes good money as a dancer.”
“I’m glad of that,” I said, wondering if dancer was a euphemism, then deciding that it was none of my business. It was true that Hortense was not especially noticeable as far as looks went, but that made perfect sense knowing that Julia had probably been the one to hire her. Julia was unlikely to have much tolerance for pretty young women in her vicinity.
By the time I was finished dressing and removing my makeup, a policeman had taken up a station in the corridor between the green room and the prop room. He stood quite still in his uniform, saber at his side, glancing at me and Hortense as we approached and then giving a nod that both greeted and dismissed us. But I would not be so easily dismissed. I addressed him in my best French.
“How do you do, monsieur? I am Miss Sybil Ingram, a visitor from England. Can you tell me if you will need me or my fiancé, Mr. Roderick Brooke, for questioning tonight?”
He did not seem impressed by me or my command of his language. I guessed his age at around fifty, and he had the stolidity of one who had long experience in withstanding curious bystanders. “I cannot say, mademoiselle. Please wait with the others until the doctor arrives.”
“The doctor?” I repeated. “Surely it is a bit late for doctors.”
Hortense took me by the arm. “Come, mademoiselle,” she urged me. “Let us do as he says.”
Vexed at the man’s unhelpfulness, I allowed her to lead me away and into the green room. Roderick caught my eye at once and beckoned me over to a chair he had saved for me between him and Philippe, who was looking more comfortable in a dry suit of clothes. Recalling the sight of him in his clingy, rain-soaked shirt, I thought fleetingly of taking advantage of the still unseasonably warm weather to coax Roderick out into the rain should there be any showers.
As I settled in beside him Roderick slipped his arm around my waist and bent his head to touch his lips to my temple. Highly content, I snuggled close against him. I loved being reconciled.
“What is this I hear about a doctor having been sent for?” I asked of the room generally.
Philippe nodded. “A legal doctor. It is a requirement before a death can be declared a murder.”
“But isn’t it obvious in this case?” I exclaimed.
He gave a rather tired smile. “It is just paperasserie—do you have that expression in English?”
“Red tape, yes,” Roderick said. “It does seem like an unnecessary step—and a delay in starting the investigation.”
“Well, your bobbies have their own way of doing things,” Marianne said with some asperity from her place on the other side of Philippe, “and our guardians of the peace have theirs. It does not make them any less efficient.”
“Oh, doesn’t it?” said Roderick under his breath, and I hid a smile.
We waited. Marianne started a game of two-handed patience and cajoled Philippe into joining her, but his mind did not seem to be on the cards.
“I hope someone is looking after Julia,” he said. “Perhaps when we are permitted to leave I should call on her to see whether she’s recovering from her illness.”
“At this hour?” Marianne stared at him. It had to be well past midnight.
Embarrassed, he mumbled, “You’re right, of course. I had lost track of the time.”
Now that he had brought up Julia, I found myself thinking about her mission for the first time and wondering if all had gone smoothly tonight. It was difficult to imagine Julia letting anything short of cannons and artillery stand in her way.
What preparations might Fournier have made in the event of his death, though? I seemed to recall hearing once that clever blackmailers always made arrangements to expose all of their victims’ secrets if they were to die under suspicious circumstances, in order to discourage any desperate soul from killing them in an effort to prevent being exposed. I was not certain Fournier had been possessed of such foresight, however, and I realized that unless he had left such instructions, Julia was now in no danger of seeing her letters exposed, whether or not she had succeeded in retrieving them.
That meant that Roderick and I might be free to depart from Paris as soon as we had made any necessary statements about Fournier’s death. And that, in turn, meant that I waited with even greater impatience to learn of the doctor’s findings.
Although it felt like a long time, probably no more than twenty minutes had passed before the policeman stepped into the room accompanied by a stranger in a plain, ill-cut suit. Middle aged and with receding sandy hair, he boasted little in his outward appearance to command instant respect. Nevertheless, such was his self-possession and quiet air of command that he did not have to so much as clear his throat to gain everyone’s attention.
“Bon soir,” he said in a soft baritone. “Good evening. I am Inspector Girard of the Sûreté, and I shall be investigating the death of the man who has been identified as Danton Fournier.”
Gustave and Kenton exchanged puzzled glances, which the inspector observed.
“Doubtless you are wondering how the Sûreté became involved so quickly,” he said. “As it happens, the officer here knew that in my off-duty hours I am often to be found at Café Parthénope, just down the road, and he summoned me as soon as the doctor declared the case to be one that my department ought to undertake.”
His manner was so calm and his voice so mild that he might have been discussing the construction of a chicken coop.
“So it is murder, then?” Philippe said.
The inspector gave a grave nod, like a professor acknowledging a correct response from a student. Murmurs broke out around the room, quickly building to a level that made the inspector raise his hand to stem them. He said, “You will all please return here tomorrow to give your statements. I shall expect the backstage staff at eleven and the actors at two.”
Roderick shifted impatiently. “Inspector, must we report to you if we have nothing to tell? I wasn’t aware the man was even in the building, nor did I see any suspicious activity. My fiancée and I are eager to leave the city and resume our travels.”
The inspector regarded us with no expression in his pale gray eyes. “And you are—?”
Kenton interposed. “Inspector, this is Mr. Roderick Brooke, the famous violinist from the United States. He is our concertmaster. His fiancée is Miss Sybil Ingram of England, a distinguished actress. Surely they need not go through the formality of making statements.”
The inspector frowned at a playbill in his hand. “Sybil Ingram,” he repeated. “But I do not see you listed among the cast, mademoiselle.”
“I’m not a member of the production.”
“Then why are you here?”
For a fraction of a second I was taken aback, but at once a plausible story sprang to mind. “Why, I came to see the play, of course, since Roderick is performing with the orchestra.”
Girard’s expectant expression did not alter. “And you are backstage now because...?”
“Well, I had to congratulate everyone after they had given such a marvelous performance, didn’t I?” Pleased with the story I had concocted, I gave the man my most charming smile. He was French, after all, and might stretch a point for a pretty young woman. “Perhaps it is a trifle irregular,” I said cajolingly, “but Roderick and I would appreciate it so much if you could excuse us from making s
tatements. As he was in the orchestra pit and I in the audience, we have no testimony to offer.”
There are, I grieve to say, men on whom charm is not only wasted but taken as a kind of affront. Fortunately, they are not numerous—but unhappily for me, the inspector seemed to be one of them. He eyed me with all the enthusiasm of a fish on a slab and said in English, “As much as it pains me to discommode you, Mademoiselle Ingram, I shall nevertheless need to speak with you both.”
“As you think best, of course, inspector.” I retreated into formality, smothering a sigh. Roderick and I would be delayed a bit longer, it seemed.
Roderick and I took luncheon together the next day in my suite before returning to the theater. As Roderick employed no valet and only sporadically permitted the hotel staff to enter his quarters, it was generally unfit for company, even me.
“Mrs. Vise finally bullied me into letting the staff tidy the mess and change the linens,” he told me as we ate our braised goose aux marrons. “Even though I hate to have my things disarranged, I admit I look forward to sleeping in fresh sheets.”
I paused with my fork halfway to my mouth to enjoy the mental image of Roderick sprawled in clean white sheets. How vivid his olive skin would be against the snowy linen.
“Do you wear a nightshirt?” I asked inconsequentially.
He gave me a quizzical look as he laid down his knife. “Only when absolutely necessary,” he said.
“That’s right—I remember.” The night he had burst into my room at Brooke House, he had seemed to be wearing nothing beneath his dressing gown. I remembered how flustered I had been at the sight of his chest, so much of which was bared by the robe.
“Why?” he asked now.
“Mmm... no reason.”
Perhaps he guessed the tendency of my thoughts, for a roguish smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “As pleasant as other trains of thought might be,” he said, “I cannot help but wonder how this investigation will play out. I expect we both know who the guilty party is.”
The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2) Page 17
