The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2)

by Amanda DeWees

  Marianne made a wry face. “Have you not noticed that young actresses are much more likely to be cast when they do not seem to pose the risk of falling pregnant? Not to mention when the manager thinks he might have a chance of bedding them.”

  “Besides,” her husband added, “married actors and actresses don’t seem to have the same romantic appeal to the public. I guarantee you that two-thirds of the young women who come to performances to gawk at me would find another actor to give their hearts to if they learned I am married. As it is, however, my cabinet cards are evidently selling quite briskly.”

  So young and so pragmatic, the pair of them... but still, how clever to observe such things. “I must say I admire your foresight,” I said, and my tone made Marianne laugh.

  “But you do not envy our situation? Yes, I can see how you would feel that way. Of course, it is not ideal. But it is far better than being apart, n’est-ce pas?”

  I had never seen her so relaxed and contented, nor him so cheerful. Clearly their arrangement worked for them, and that was what mattered. I realized now that this was the secret information that had convinced Roderick that Philippe’s heart was not in his liaison with Julia and so he would not have committed murder for her sake. It surprised me that Roderick had not felt he could tell me. Or had he not wanted to put the idea of marriage into my head again?

  But that was something to discuss with him later. “Well, if nothing else, you’ve honed your acting skills marvelously with your charade,” I said. “I never dreamed from seeing you together that you were married.”

  A knock on the door proved to be the delivery boy from the boulangerie, and Marianne counted out coins to pay for the bread. “I suspect you wish to speak to my husband,” she said to me. “If your maid can help me prepare breakfast, that will give the two of you some time to talk.” When I smiled assent, she said in careful English to Mrs. Vise, “Shall you be helping me to prepare breakfast, if it please you?”

  “Outlandish,” Mrs. Vise muttered to me, but she jerked her head in an affirmative nod and marched after Marianne to the far corner of the room that served for a kitchen. Soon Mrs. Vise was cutting slices of brioche for Marianne to toast over a spirit lamp.

  “Cozy,” I said.

  Philippe grinned. “Spartan,” he corrected. “But soon we’ll be able to afford better lodgings. What is it you wished to speak to me about? The séance?”

  Primarily I had wished to talk to him away from Julia’s presence to get a more accurate idea of his feelings for her, and that goal I had accomplished lavishly. But there was one other matter. “The rapiers that you and Mr. Ivey use for the duel in act two,” I said. “Have they always been sharp?”

  “Not always, no. We had been using swords that were blunted right up through opening night. As you may remember, though, something went wrong with the set that night, and Ivey and I had to draw out our fight. It became a bit of a strain, so he decided to switch to lighter rapiers after that. The ones the accessoiriste provided weren’t blunted, but they had guards on the tips.”

  “Wouldn’t that be awkward for you if you weren’t accustomed to it?”

  He offered me his cigarette case. I shook my head but motioned for him to feel free to smoke. “We’d both fought with blades like that,” he said, striking a light. “All of the fencing training I had was with rapiers with some kind of guard.”

  “So you have had a great deal of practice fencing?”

  “Yes, that was one of the main reasons Ivey cast me. I wasn’t as experienced as some of the other actors, but I was much more comfortable with the sword fighting.”

  “Stage fighting? Or were you in the National Guard during the war?”

  “No, I was fortunate enough not to be drafted. At the time my ambition was to be a journalist.” For a second he was lost in thought, but then the match flame singed his fingers, and he shook it out with a mild oath. “Witnessing the Bloody Week and its aftermath changed my mind,” he explained. “The ferocity with which each half of Paris turned against the other, and the executions brought about by informers like the Fanner of Flames, sent me looking toward a profession that would give me less cause to despair of my fellow man.”

  “I can understand that,” I said. “Who was the informer you mentioned, the Fanner of Flames?”

  “No one knows. Perhaps he left Paris or went into hiding. In any event, I cannot attribute my study of swordsmanship to politics. Mostly I wished to impress a young lady.”

  That made me laugh. “And did you?”

  He shrugged. “We parted long ago. But I did become enamored of the rapier, and I have remained its devoted swain ever since.”

  My face must have been a study, for he burst into laughter. “Now, Sybil, don’t start thinking that I murdered Fournier. Obviously I would not have done it to find favor with Julia.”

  “Whom do you suspect?” I asked.

  His eyes flicked away from mine as he drew from his cigarette. “I’ve no idea,” he said, but I knew suddenly that he felt Roderick had done it. After all, Philippe had been present when I reminded Julia of her request that Roderick kill for her... and of his role in the death of her first husband.

  Then I realized he was looking at the newspaper he had set aside upon my arrival. Now that I took a closer look, I saw a likeness of Inspector Girard next to an engraving of the Théâtre Caprice, and I seized the paper so that I could read the accompanying article.

  No wonder Philippe suspected Roderick: the article revealed that the inspector’s suspicions in the murder of Danton Fournier had turned to a prominent member of the theater orchestra. It also noted that he had previously suspected not one but two actresses in the production. My initial relief that neither Roderick nor I had been identified by name gave way to a keener interest as I read that this rapid rotation of prime suspects was making the inspector look ridiculous and awakening public disdain for his ability to perform his office. The author of the article heaped scorn on Girard for seeking a killer in such unlikely circles and failing to question acquaintances of Fournier who were known to be engaged in shady practices.

  “The inspector must have been furious to see this,” I mused. “I wonder if it will make him more likely, or less, to make a rash arrest.”

  “For Brooke’s sake, I hope it will make him more cautious,” Philippe said, and my anxiety over Roderick came rushing to the fore, awakening my temper.

  “Perhaps you had reason to kill Fournier on your own behalf,” I flared. “If he found out that you and Marianne are married, he might have threatened to tell Julia—or the press. As you pointed out, that might have damaged your career.”

  Considering what both Roderick and the psychic had told me, I had little enough cause to suspect Philippe. But the protective side of me could not resist that little jab.

  He did not look offended, however, just perplexed. “That would have been a great overreaction, don’t you think? Not to mention extremely ungrateful to Ivey. If I were arrested for killing anyone he’d have to cast another jeune premier, and although I know I’m easily enough replaced, it would put him to the trouble of teaching a new actor the fight choreography.”

  Marianne’s voice broke in unexpectedly “Besides which,” she said, “Philippe is too good-hearted to kill anyone. It is fortunate that he did not have to do any fighting in the war.”

  “And you?”

  Her smile was hard. “Believe me, if I were going to kill anyone, I would not trouble myself with someone like Fournier.”

  I laughed. “Julia never fails to make an impression on everyone whose path she crosses.”

  “Julia is not the only one on the list,” she said darkly.

  “Marianne, honestly!” I cried. “How can I convince you that I never had any intention of appearing for more than one night in this play? What I wanted was to get married and go to Italy with Roderick. After that, yes, I would think about resuming my acting career—but only in a role in my native tongue.”

  She folded
her arms. “It would be easier to believe you if you left Paris.”

  “Don’t you see, that is why I have to find out who killed Fournier. As long as the police are scrutinizing Roderick, we are trapped here.”

  She came to perch on the arm of her husband’s chair. “When you put it that way, I become much more interested in helping you. What suspects remain to you?”

  “That is the difficulty,” I admitted. “I no longer have any. I would have liked to get La Clarté’s insight into Mr. Ivey, but I cannot seriously consider him capable of driving a rapier through a man, no matter how desperate his situation was.”

  “I agree,” Marianne said. “Have you considered that it may not be anyone we know? Perhaps someone followed Fournier to the theater.”

  “And then somehow managed to make his way unobserved to the prop table, borrow one of the rapiers, kill Fournier, return the sword to its place, and escape, all without being seen?” Philippe looked skeptical.

  This was becoming discouraging. “Perhaps a change of scene will bring some fresh insight,” I said, rising and catching Mrs. Vise’s eye to let her know we were departing.

  “You aren’t staying for le petit déjeuner?”

  “Mrs. Vise and I have already breakfasted, thank you. And I need to look in on Mr. Ivey.” I hesitated on the point of leaving, struck once again by their contentment in each other and in their humble home. “If your profession ever takes you to England,” I said, “pray let me know. I still have connections there who might be of use to you.”

  Philippe thanked me, but Marianne looked amused. “You wish to be friends,” she observed.

  “I would much rather have you as a friend than an enemy... and you would much rather not have me as an enemy either.”

  She took the warning with good grace. We kissed each other on both cheeks, and Mrs. Vise and I took our leave.

  That lady had a great many opinions on our recent hosts to unfold to me as we descended the stairs and returned to our carriage, but I paid little heed to her. I was thinking about friends and enemies, and whether one of the latter might still wish to dispose of me before I could unmask the killer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Our visit to Kenton Ivey was brief. Primarily I wished to put forth the idea of another séance and test his response. Even without the psychic’s insight, I felt I could gauge whether his response betrayed guilt.

  When Jean-Baptiste ushered us into Kenton’s study we found him distrait, and he greeted us with an abstracted air. “Of course, if you wish it,” he said in response to my suggestion of another séance, but so far from looking alarmed, he looked as if he had more worrying matters on his mind already. I suspected that if I had asked him to repeat my words back to me he would have been at a loss. This was not the manner of a man afraid I would expose him as a murderer.

  A ledger lay before him on his desk, and I wondered what kind of financial situation he found himself in now that his primary backer had been killed. Depending on the contract terms and Fournier’s executors, that might make Kenton’s position more precarious than ever.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” I said, “but you look troubled.”

  He forced a smile. “Actress problems, that is all. Nothing new under the sun!”

  Who else could that mean but Julia? I wondered what mischief she was about now. Perhaps she was demanding a rise in salary. “I ought to let you know,” I said, “Roderick and I shan’t be able to remain in the show much longer. If he is arrested, obviously he’ll be unavailable, and I will be doing everything I can to secure his release. In any case, as soon as this business with the Sûreté is cleared up, we’ll be leaving Paris.” I did not add, Now that you cannot blackmail us into staying.

  “I knew I’d not be able to hold on to you both indefinitely,” he said calmly. “It’s been longer than I hoped for as it is—long enough to spoil me. I wish that all my leading ladies were as professional as you.”

  This sounded like another hint that he had become thoroughly disenchanted with Julia. Here was an opportunity for me to make amends to Marianne... and, if I was completely honest with myself, to make Julia’s position at the theater a little bit more tenuous.

  “If you should find yourself needing to recast the role of Elfrida,” I said, “may I suggest Marianne? She and Philippe would make a charming couple. They have a true rapport.”

  The idea was clearly a new one, but almost at once I could see it take hold of his imagination and begin to intrigue him. “And she would not demand a large salary increase,” he observed, half to himself. “Thank you for the suggestion, Sybil. You are too good to me, especially after... well...”

  “We shall say no more about it,” I said generously.

  Mrs. Vise gave a disapproving sniff to indicate that she, at least, had not forgiven him. However, I felt a pleasant virtuous sensation as I bade him farewell and, with Mrs. Vise, took my leave.

  Next on my list was Gustave Valion, whom I wished to question about the woman Roderick and I had seen him with at Café Parthénope. I suspected he might be more forthcoming with a man, but I had not thought to ask Roderick to include such an interview among his mysterious activities for the day.

  The Valions lived in the mezzanine apartment above a busy pâtisserie run by their son and daughter-in-law. The heavenly fragrance of sweet pastry followed Mrs. Vise and me up the stairs and lingered with us as I knocked at the door.

  To my dismay, Estelle herself answered the door in a plain wrapper. I had hoped that she would be out. “Sybil!” she said in pleased surprise. “Do come in.”

  I introduced Mrs. Vise, who gave a little approving nod at the sight of Estelle’s clean, pressed wrapper and another at the modestly decorated but tidy apartment that we entered. It was far less luxurious than the apartments in which Helaine and Kenton lived, having lower ceilings and affording less sunlight, but there was a coziness about it that I found welcoming.

  “You’ve arrived just in time for a fresh pot of coffee,” Estelle said, leading us into the miniature parlor. “Gustave will be glad to entertain you while I fetch it in. Are you hungry? It’s nearly noon—I’ll give you something from the shop.”

  Before I could respond, Gustave had risen from the bench of an elderly piano to greet us. When I introduced Mrs. Vise he clasped her hand in both of his, which made her stiffen in apprehension, and welcomed her to his home.

  “At least he didn’t try to take a liberty,” she told me when I translated his greeting. “I know what these Frenchmen are like!”

  If any of the men in Paris had been taking liberties with Mrs. Vise, it was news to me... and it would have made me doubt their sense of self-preservation. I told Gustave that she had said she was pleased to meet him and reflected, as before, that it was a blessing Mrs. Vise understood very little French, considering the subject I intended to raise with Gustave.

  Indeed, it would be best to do so promptly, before his wife returned.

  Gustave led us to a grouping of chairs close to the windows that overlooked the street, letting in the cheerful background noise of traffic and pedestrians below. “I’m delighted that you decided to visit,” he was saying when I broke in.

  “Pray forgive me for being blunt, Gustave, but I must take advantage of your wife’s being out of the room to bring up something that you may wish to keep confidential. The fact is, Roderick and I saw you with a young woman at Café Parthénope.”

  His expression of polite interest did not change. “Yes?” he said.

  There really was no way to avoid feeling awkward in such a conversation. “We could not help but wonder whether you had been another victim of Fournier’s blackmailing.”

  He looked puzzled for a moment, and then as my meaning penetrated he broke into laughter. He called over his shoulder, “Ma chérie, Sybil is concerned that Fournier was blackmailing me over Delphine.”

  Estelle appeared in the doorway with a tray bearing a coffee service. She laughed and shook her head as she brought the
tray in and set it down on a low table. “As if that were a secret!” she said. “If Fournier had tried to blackmail every Frenchman who has a mistress, he would not have had time to sleep or eat.”

  Relief flooded me. I had not shattered my friends’ marital harmony—or identified Gustave as a possible murderer. “Then you knew about her?”

  “Of course! Gustave has no reason to hide his arrangement with Delphine. She is a dear, kind girl.”

  “And you aren’t... distressed?” I asked her, even though it was obvious that she was not on the point of a jealous rage.

  “Estelle is not the type to be distressed over something so unimportant,” Gustave said comfortably. “I would never have married a jealous woman.”

  She chuckled and passed me a cup of coffee. “Gustave never hid anything from me,” she said. “I knew when we married how things would be. He never deceived me.” She served Mrs. Vise her coffee, then passed us plates bearing slices of something that looked like a tart, saying, “Do have some gâteau Basque. It is one of my daughter-in-law’s specialties.”

  Even though I had considered from the start that Estelle might know about her husband’s extra woman, I was still somewhat surprised at how matter-of-fact she was. I remembered Julia’s claim that it was unfair to expect one’s husband not to take a mistress and wondered if this philosophy was part of French culture as a whole. It might be even more widespread than that, of course—or then again, it might be the exception rather than the rule. Certainly I had no intention of quizzing the rest of my married acquaintance to find out.

  Regardless, Estelle and her husband seemed contented with the arrangement, and that was all that really mattered. I felt a rush of gratitude that I could be certain Roderick had no such expectation for our married life. Thank heaven he and I were in accord in that respect, as in so many others.

  “I feel rather foolish to have brought the matter up,” I admitted. “Not to mention intrusive. But you see, with Roderick under suspicion I have to seek anywhere I can for clues to what really happened to Fournier.”