The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2)

by Amanda DeWees

  “Ah, yes.” A smile so grim it scarcely deserved the name. “I know now that I carry my own ill luck with me. There needs no ghost come from the grave, as the bard said. At first when I sensed something wrong in the theater I thought it was Matthew’s restless spirit, but I realized at your séance that I was wrong—and moreover that I was inviting trouble by asking you to invite communications from spirits. It was a foolhardy, dangerous idea.”

  “I believe there is something a bit uncanny at work, though,” I said, “and I think it is because of Helaine.”

  “What?”

  “When I look back, every time I have felt a mood of despair and unease in the theater, it has been in her company. When I visited her home today I felt the same terrible miasma of hopelessness. I fear it is her grief for her husband.”

  He bowed his head. “The tragic loss of one’s soulmate does indeed change a person. I never stir a step without the remembrance of Matthew.”

  I reached out to place my hand on his for a moment, though I knew it was little comfort. “What happens now, I wonder? To Fournier’s papers and Matthew’s note?”

  “If I am lucky, I suppose the heir, whoever it is, will burn everything. Or if the estate is not settled at once, perhaps everything goes into storage. If only Julia had found it!”

  At last I understood his cryptic hints. “That was what you meant about your interests aligning with hers—she was to retrieve the note when she got her letters.”

  He said, “That was the plan.”

  “And?”

  “She said she was unable to find it.”

  My lips tightened. “I don’t know whether to hope she was lying or not,” I said, thinking about the possible consequences if she had found the note and decided to keep it for her own purposes.

  He must have been entertaining similar thoughts. “Neither do I,” he said.

  Since tonight was Julia’s turn to play Elfrida, I took Mrs. Vise to a play at another theater. I was in the mood for something foolish and irreverent, a pastiche, but I suspected that Mrs. Vise would find a burlesque too raucous. Instead I chose an opera, and although neither of us understood a great deal (for opera in any language is nigh incomprehensible to me), the music, glittering costumes, and soaring emotions were at least a diversion from more troubling contemplation.

  After returning home, we settled in for a last cup of tea before Mrs. Vise retired. I kept later hours than she and in any case always stayed up to see Roderick, whose habit was to stop by my rooms after the performance to tell me how it had gone and say good night. So it was not unexpected to hear his rapid tread in the corridor outside, but his first words to us came completely out of the blue.

  “I am now the prime suspect in Fournier’s murder,” he said as soon as Mrs. Vise opened the door.

  “What?” He could not be in earnest, but I darted up from my seat and ran to him anyway. Mrs. Vise began to retreat, but Roderick called her back.

  “You may as well stay, Mrs. Vise; you’re certain to hear rumors about it, and I’d rather you heard the story from me. Let us sit down, shall we?”

  But he was too restless to sit. Instead he paced back and forth before the French doors, which were open to the night air. At a gesture from me, Mrs. Vise went to close them, lest anyone overhear.

  “How did this happen?” I demanded. “This is lunacy! Is the inspector simply going down a list of everyone involved in Le Château Fantastique?”

  “There is reason for it, absurd though it is.” He dragged his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Apparently the body was examined again, more carefully, and what had first been thought to be a stiletto wound actually passed all the way through the body. Now they believe it to be a rapier wound, and they feel that that rules out Julia—indeed, any woman, so you are no longer a suspect. That’s the one bit of good news.”

  I could not even be relieved, so appalled was I by Roderick’s coming under suspicion. “How do they think the murderer was able to carry such a weapon into the theater without being observed?” I objected.

  He pulled a wry face. “There are rapiers in the theater itself, ready to hand.”

  “But they have all been blunted, haven’t they? That is what Hortense told me.”

  A quick shake of the head. “Not all,” he said darkly. “Some merely have guards on the tips, apparently. I’ve never had occasion to look closely at the ones used in act two, but they apparently are quite capable of dealing a killing wound.”

  My stomach churned in dread. “How could Kenton be so irresponsible! He ought to know better than to keep such dangerous things lying about.” Then a more immediate concern sprang to mind. “What possible motive can they think you would have had?”

  At that, he stopped pacing. His back was toward me, so I could not see his face, but I saw his shoulders slump as he exhaled a long sigh. “They know of my past with Julia,” he said quietly. “They are saying that I not only knew she was being blackmailed by Fournier but also still harbored a tenderness for her.” He turned to face me, and I felt a stab of sympathy at the exhaustion that had settled into his face now that his burst of energy was spent. “When I asked the inspector what possible reason he could have to think I still cared for her, he asked, ‘Why else would you have come back to Paris and taken part in this production?’”

  “I’ll speak to him,” I said at once. “I’ll explain.”

  He shook his head again, this time with a weary smile. “I don’t think it will help, sweetheart. Somehow the inspector knows about the duel. He knows that I have taken a man’s life before—and for her sake.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “But how can he possibly know?” I cried. “She was only threatening—or maybe the desire for revenge was too strong for her to resist.”

  “Julia was making threats against us?” He finally sat down beside me, and I seized one of his hands in both of mine and held on as if the police were trying to haul him off at that very moment.

  I related my confrontation with Julia that morning, although it felt as if a year had passed since then. He was on the point of flaring into a rage over her theft of my jewels, but I brought him back to the pertinent issue. “The reason I am telling you is that she was truly angry—perhaps even angry enough to put the inspector on your trail.”

  But he was shaking his head. “It isn’t like her to squander something that she thinks gives her a hold over us. I imagine the inspector learned about it from another source. After all, there must be countless people who have heard rumors.”

  I thought of my conversation with Helaine and had to admit that was probably true. “In any case, knowing the source probably isn’t vital to clearing you of suspicion. And that is the one crucial thing. But how on earth does the inspector think that you can have committed the murder from the orchestra pit?”

  “He knows that I don’t always stay in the pit, that I move to the wings whenever Philippe pretends to be playing his fiddle. His contention is that on my way to or from the wings in one of those instances I could have taken a detour by the prop room.”

  “It is absurd,” I said. “Everyone would have noticed if you were late returning to the orchestra.” All the same, I was beginning to feel genuine alarm. It sounded as if the inspector was building up quite a case against Roderick.

  Closing his eyes, he let his head drop back. “I ought never to have insisted we come to Paris,” he said softly. “I thought I was being noble or making amends, and all I’ve done is drag us into disaster.” He drew me close, and I held him tightly.

  “We will find our way out of this,” I promised. “At least they haven’t officially arrested you; that must mean they know their case is not strong enough.” When he did not reply, I said, “I will do anything in my power to win your release, even if I have to seduce every government official in Versailles.”

  His chuckle was a subdued one, but at least I had managed to make him laugh. “If anyone could bring France to its knees,” he said, “it is you
, my darling.”

  It was futile to try to lighten the situation, I realized, and my thoughts turned inevitably toward more serious speculation. “Do you think it might have been Philippe?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t,” he said at once. “I spoke with him privately, and I’m completely convinced of his innocence.”

  “You sound very certain. He must have been extremely persuasive.”

  He hesitated. “He shared a confidence with me that he made me promise not to divulge. But I am entirely certain he had nothing to do with Fournier’s death.”

  “Oh,” I said, somewhat taken aback that he would not disclose the secret to me. But perhaps it was the kind of thing that men only discussed with other men. “Well, that is reassuring... but it leaves us with fewer leads to pursue.”

  A deferential cough made us both start. I had entirely forgotten Mrs. Vise’s presence, and Roderick must have as well, going by his startled look. She stood watching us with her hands folded, a small oasis of order and calm in the midst of our disarray.

  “Yes, Mrs. Vise?” I said.

  “I was just thinking, madam, why not ask Mrs. La Clarté to help? Her housekeeper, Mrs. Varens, says she has a talent for sensing when someone is being dishonest or has ill intentions.”

  “That is an excellent idea,” I said. Bringing a psychic into the situation could offer tremendous insight that was not otherwise available. Even though Mrs. Vise did not believe in such a power, I had experienced it at work.

  “Who is Mrs. La Clarté?” Roderick asked.

  Briefly I told him about my visit to the supposed medium. Mrs. Vise periodically gave skeptical sniffs to register her opinion of the supernatural portions of my narrative but otherwise did not interrupt. “So you see,” I concluded, “she is exactly the person best situated to help us. In fact, I wonder if she would consent to join me in a séance to try to contact Fournier. Even though she doesn’t have a medium’s abilities, she is clever and perceptive and has studied the subject in depth.”

  “But I thought that idea was abhorrent to you,” said Roderick, “and with good reason.”

  “With you under suspicion,” I said firmly, “I cannot afford to be squeamish. And if Clarette is present to give me guidance, I will have more courage.” When he did not respond at once, I asked, “How would you feel about that?”

  After a moment’s thought, he said, “If you truly want to have a séance, it would make me easier in my mind if you had an expert with you—even if her expertise is largely theoretical.”

  “Then I have your blessing?” I asked, so that there would be no risk of misunderstanding.

  He kissed me on the forehead. “Yes, you do. I can’t help but find the idea a bit farfetched, but heaven knows I’ve experienced things every bit as strange during the time I’ve known you. Besides, I’m in no position to throw water on any plan with a chance of strengthening my case. If you think she will help us...”

  “Darling, I know she will. Mrs. Vise, will you ring for a porter to carry a message over to La Clarté’s house asking if we may call in the morning?”

  “At once, madam.”

  “You’ll see,” I told Roderick as I rose to fetch paper, pen, and ink. “She is our best hope of solving this mystery and freeing you from suspicion.”

  All was quiet in the properties room at the theater the next morning when Clarette and I began our séance.

  We had appropriated chairs and a small table from the quantity of miscellaneous furniture that crowded the room, and Clarette had brought a candle to provide illumination more suitable than gaslight. I had taken the precaution of locking the door, and now we sat in silence, our clasped hands resting on the table, as I tried to focus my thoughts on the man who had been killed in this room.

  It was difficult to concentrate. Every minute sound, every creak of a floorboard or rustle of mice in the walls, sent my mind flying in a panic to the image of Fournier’s vengeful ghost, advancing upon me just as the terrible Magda had, with his hands outstretched to silence me—or worse. At the same time, a cooperative Fournier might be even more horrifying. What if even now he were to take pleasure in leering at me, an inspection that might now be even more intimate since he was no longer subject to the limitations of his fleshly senses?

  I gave myself a little shake and pushed the thoughts away. “Danton Fournier,” I said aloud, “we call upon you to make your presence known. Tell us who is responsible for your death so that we may seek justice for you.”

  But I could not help thinking that perhaps justice was exactly what he had received when someone stabbed him through the heart. It was justice for Roderick that I really wanted. I hoped that would not prove an impediment to contacting Fournier’s spirit.

  As minutes passed with no sign of the dead man, my hopes dimmed. More invocations went unanswered.

  “It’s no use, I’m afraid,” I finally said. “I cannot seem to sense him at all.”

  Clarette shook her head. She was dressed in the mystical garb of her profession, and the candlelight glittered on the metallic embroidery on the robe and turban she wore. “Sybil, ma chère,” she said in her deep, pleasant voice, “how can you expect him to contact you when you have built up a wall against him?”

  “What?”

  “I can tell that you are resisting this spirit far more than you are welcoming it.”

  “That’s not true,” I said, as if saying it would make it so.

  She gave me a look so skeptical that I felt myself blushing. “You know it to be true. As desperate as you are to save your fiancé, why are you so reluctant to actually try to contact Fournier’s spirit?”

  This was the great disadvantage of conversing with a psychic. She could tell when I was lying, even to myself.

  “Since you never met him,” I said wretchedly, “it may not be possible to convey to you what a repugnant man he was. Have you ever known someone of a character so repellent that you felt revulsion at being close to him, that you did not want to so much as touch hands? I am afraid that channeling his spirit will be even worse, for now he will be inside my mind.” The prospect made me shudder.

  She pressed my hand reassuringly. “But it is only temporary, yes? And for this small sacrifice of your comfort for a few minutes, you may unlock knowledge that can save Roderick.”

  Although I knew she was right, I had no idea how to overcome my revulsion. “Then can you help me get rid of this wall, as you call it?”

  She gave me a comforting smile. “That is easily done. Do not think about what you dread. Think instead about helping Roderick. Imagine all the good this information may do—imagine Fournier giving you and Roderick the key to your freedom.”

  There sprang into my mind the image of Fournier dressed as Father Christmas, handing Roderick the name of the killer wrapped up in bright ribbons. It made me smile, and I felt my wariness ease. Too, I remembered that Danton Fournier must at some point have been an innocent child before he had started down the warped path that led him to die on the dusty floorboards of a prop storage room, and I felt the stirrings of sympathy for that long-ago boy, who had died alone and unloved in this ignominious fashion.

  Now when I called upon Fournier, my voice held confidence. “Danton Fournier,” I said. “Speak to me if you are within the range of my voice. Help me unmask your killer. Your murderer shall be held accountable for what he did to you, and then you may rest in peace.”

  Clarette gave my hand a squeeze to signify approval and encouragement.

  Strangely, though, I still felt no sense of Fournier’s presence. As eagerly as my mind reached for him, I felt no trace of another consciousness. I held the picture of him before my mind’s eye, but when I looked around the room, not even the faintest cobwebby thread of a manifestation could I see.

  I addressed him again many times, but with the same lack of results. Finally Clarette withdrew her hands from mine and went to light the gas.

  “That is enough, I think,” she said as the room filled wit
h light, making me blink. “It appears that we have reached a dead end.”

  “What did I do wrong?” I wondered. My throat was dry, so the words emerged as a sad whisper.

  She blew out the candle. Her outlandish costume looked garish against the homely background of tumbled-together household furnishings and papier-mâché statues. “You made a magnificent effort,” she said. “You did all that you could. Did you truly feel no trace of him?”

  “None at all. Nor even a sense of tragedy or dread attached to this room. We might as well have been strolling on the Champs-Élysées for all the murderous atmosphere I sensed.”

  She gave one of her deep, comfortable chuckles. “That is all to the good, then! His spirit must have passed out of this sphere. If his soul were tormented or restless, it would be trapped here, and you would have sensed something of that.”

  “That’s fine for him,” I said, discouraged, “and I’m glad for Kenton’s sake that the man won’t be haunting this room, but it leaves me and Roderick no better off than before.”

  “Eh bien, I am sorry about that, but it cannot be helped. You will find another way, I’m certain.” She made for the door, but I jumped up from my chair and took her arm before she could leave.

  “Wait—please don’t go yet. I have another idea.” I had not suggested it before, hoping that the séance would make the other plan unnecessary. “Will you help me question everyone here at the theater—everyone who was here the night of the murder? It seems likely that one of them is the killer. With your psychic ability, you can look into everyone’s thoughts and find out if they are innocent or guilty.” I took a deep breath of anticipation. “Well? What do you think?”

  She looked pensive as she drew on her gloves. “I’m afraid I see some difficulty,” she said. “Unfortunately, reading minds out in the open, so to speak, can be difficult. In their everyday lives most people’s thoughts are diffuse, scattered. That is why I ask my clients when they come for a reading to focus their thoughts on the one they wish to contact.”