Jeanette turned to the box, unclipped a clasp at the front and opened it up, but from his place on the armchair Maximilian could not see what was in it.
“There we go, miss,” Jeanette said. “All we need now is a couple of cocktails.”
Madame laughed. Then, taking a silver key from her pocket bag, she opened the padlock on a purple satin jewel case. She drew out a deep-green necklace of jade, three tiaras, and bracelets in so many different colours that they looked like a stained-glass window. Finally she drew out a velvet parcel, placed it in front of her and unwrapped it. She held up a necklace of black and cream pearls. In the centre was the biggest diamond Maximilian had ever seen, shaped like a seven-sided star. Maximilian stared. It was very striking and, from the way she gazed at it, obviously Madame’s favourite.
“Are they all there?” Jeanette asked.
Madame nodded. “All except this one.”
She stretched out an arm and from the end of her sleeve peeped a bracelet of white jewels with a red flash at the centre – the Golden Stones.
“It’s so pretty,” she said. “No wonder she didn’t want to part with it.”
Maximilian miaowed his “who didn’t want to part with what?” miaow.
Madame smiled at him but she did not understand. Maximilian was used to this. He could count the number of humans who could understand Cat on precisely no paws.
“I have not forgotten you, my little friend,” Madame cooed. “Jeanette, find this fine cat something to eat.”
Maximilian purred. He had not been disappointed in Madame…
Jeanette was a very different matter. Maximilian had a well-developed cat sense when it came to “people who do not, have never and are highly unlikely to ever like cats” and Jeanette was making his whiskers tingle. Every time she passed his chair she scowled down at him and remarked that “cats smell” or that “cats have been known to tear delicate costumes” or even that “cats drag mice into a place – it’s unhygienic”.
Jeanette and Madame could not have been more different. Madame was round and dark with fine features picked out with striking makeup that accentuated her beautiful mouth and large eyes. Jeanette, though, was a scrawny, thin-faced woman with dirty blonde hair scraped back into an untidy bun. She had very sharp cheekbones that did not quite fit with her dainty button nose, and her chin jutted out to a sharp point so that when she turned sideways she looked rather like a crescent moon.
Madame waved her objections aside. “Calm down, Jeanette,” she said. “You are always so nervy. You should be more like me.”
“Ooh, no, miss, you’re one of a kind, you are, even if you do have a thousand faces.”
Maximilian cocked his head to one side. That was an odd thing to say. Jeanette must be referring to the many parts Madame had played all over Europe.
Madame smirked at Jeanette. “Now who’s taking risks?” she said, in a half-teasing sort of way. “Careful, dear. You never know who may be listening at doors.” She glanced into the bag on her lap. “Ah, there it is!”
Madame drew from the bag a cut-glass bottle with a large emerald-green stopper. She opened it, sniffed it warily and winced at the smell. Maximilian had seen this before and knew what must have happened. Sylvia had been given a bottle of lavender perfume for her birthday by an elderly aunt, but by the time she opened it to use it the scent had gone off and it smelled like vinegar. Sylvia had thrown the whole bottle down the drain. But Madame did not throw the perfume down the drain. She only smiled to herself, stoppered the bottle again and placed it on a shelf on her dressing table.
Maximilian miaowed. “Shouldn’t you throw that out if it smells bad?”
Madame glanced at him and yawned lazily, not even bothering to cover her mouth. It was most unladylike of her.
“I think maybe puss-cat should be put out,” she said to Jeanette. “After all, we have much to prepare, don’t we, dear, and he is turning out to be rather noisy.”
Jeanette smirked and, picking Maximilian up without much care for where she dug in her very long nails, she slung him out of the dressing-room door and slammed it shut again.
Maximilian gave himself a little shake. He was not accustomed to such rude treatment and he was sure that Madame would scold Jeanette for her behaviour. But instead of hearing Madame tell Jeanette off, from inside Madame’s dressing room he heard the two women laughing.
Maximilian had a very good nose. He could smell out a sardine buried at the bottom of a shopping basket or wrapped in several layers of greaseproof paper. What he smelled now, though, was something different. Madame claimed to be a wonderful singer, but her voice sounded like one of the harsh, yelling street-market stallholders. She claimed to love cats, but threw him out when he miaowed. She kept perfume that smelled bad, and there was something very peculiar about that beauty spot of hers. Maximilian did not need to sniff the air to smell what he was scenting now. He was scenting a mystery.
The next day the company was thrilled to hear the most beautiful singing coming from Madame Emerald’s dressing room. First there were scales that started soft and low and climbed up till the topmost part of her voice echoed around the corridor outside. Then there were trills, lightly tripping up and down and ending in vibrating notes where her voice seemed to quiver with delight. She sang nonsense words that were just one vowel after another and sensible things like “Ah, fair fates” and then she sang through her solo for the finale of The Duchess’s Jewels twice. Outside the theatre people paused in the street to listen. Downstairs, Monsieur Lavroche skipped across the lobby crying, “I knew it would be all right,” and clapping his hands with delight. As he passed one of the freshly arranged flower displays at the base of the great staircase he crushed the carnation from his lapel into the pocket of his waistcoat (tangerine velvet with purple frogging) and chose a perfect cream rosebud to take its place.
Outside Madame’s dressing room the company gathered, spellbound. Agnes sat cross-legged on the floor with Maximilian on her lap, gazing dreamily at Madame Emerald’s door handle. Sylvia sat with her legs straight out in front of her, tapping her feet in time to the music, marking out the steps of her ballet solo.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Agnes breathed. “I told you she’d be wonderful.”
“Shhh,” hissed Sylvia, working out a particularly difficult step.
After half an hour the impromptu concert was over and Monsieur Lavroche whisked everyone away. He tugged on his waistcoat, straightened his collar and knocked at Madame’s door.
Sylvia and Agnes hung around at the end of the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse of Madame when she came out. Maximilian padded up to the door and pressed his ear against it. From within he heard a scratching sound and the noise of a wooden box being closed.
Then the door swung open and, as Monsieur Lavroche dropped a deep bow, coiling one hand in the air and clutching his chest with the other, Jeanette slipped into the corridor and closed the door behind her.
“Madame, so marvellous to— Oh,” said Monsieur Lavroche.
“Madame is resting,” Jeanette said, keeping a firm hand on the doorknob.
“Perhaps I could just—”
“Madame is resting,” Jeanette repeated.
Monsieur Lavroche was a gentleman, and a gentleman could take a hint. He tugged at his waistcoat again and coughed a rather embarrassed little cough, but he knew he was beaten. Jeanette stared at him, her face a bland mask of nothing.
“Please give her my best,” he said eventually. “I look forward to seeing her at rehearsal and hearing more of her wonderful voice.”
Jeanette inclined her head just a little and turned the handle.
At that moment, Sylvia and Agnes came bowling down the corridor. Ignoring Monsieur Lavroche, they made a beeline for the door to Madame’s dressing room.
“We simply must tell Madame how much we enjoyed her singing,” Agnes breathed, pushing past Jeanette and into the dressing room.
“She was splendid. I’m so glad her voic
e has returned,” Sylvia trilled, dashing through behind her.
“Well, if everyone else is going in,” miaowed Maximilian, and slipped in through Jeanette’s feet.
Monsieur Lavroche frowned. It was one thing for silly girls like Sylvia and Agnes to force their way into the leading lady’s dressing room, but quite another for him to do so. While he hesitated, Jeanette glared at him and, stepping back into the room, pushed the door firmly shut on Monsieur Lavroche, leaving him standing forlorn in the corridor.
Madame was stretched out on a chaise longue underneath the window, a newspaper in her hand open at the society pages. Agnes sprang towards her.
“Oh, the papers!” she cried. “Were you reading about the jewel robbery in Mayfair six nights ago? They have photographs of all the jewels that were stolen and they are so beautiful. You must take a look, Madame. You won’t believe your eyes.”
Madame snatched the newspaper out of reach of Agnes’s hand. Maximilian saw her eyes glance at the drawer where her own jewels were hidden. Well, that was to be expected. After all, news of a robbery would certainly make a lady nervous about her own precious pieces. He was tempted to give out his “I told you to lock them away” miaow, but he did not like to appear smug.
“Jeanette, I gave strict instructions that no one—” Madame began, but Sylvia interrupted, collapsing down into one of the chairs and throwing her legs out in front of her.
“I know, but you couldn’t possibly have meant us!” she cried. “Monsieur Lavroche is a nice old stick, but he can be terribly wearing, always going on about ticket sales and advertising.”
“But we’re not Monsieur Lavroche,” Agnes interjected.
“And we just wanted to hear you sing,” Sylvia finished. “Goodness, is that what I think it is?”
As quickly as she had fallen into the chair, Sylvia sprang up from it and pirouetted across to the mysterious wooden box that Maximilian had puzzled over the day before. Madame sat upright on the chaise longue and moved as though to stop her, but before she or Jeanette could reach her, Sylvia had thrown open the lid of the box and clapped her hands with delight.
“Oh, it is! I saw one of these at a party once.”
She leaned into the box and there was a crackling noise.
“Don’t touch that!” Jeanette snapped, pushing her roughly aside and swiping at something inside the box. The crackling noise stopped as quickly as it had started and Jeanette slammed the box shut.
Sylvia jumped back as though she had been slapped. Maximilian saw her eyes narrow. Sylvia did not like to be ordered around, and was not about to let someone’s maid treat her so rudely. She drew herself up to her full height and squared her shoulders, ready to put Jeanette firmly in her place.
Madame rose from the chaise longue and moved towards Sylvia.
“Jeanette need not have been so sharp,” she said. “It’s just that it’s a very expensive item. It needs to be handled with care.”
She turned to Jeanette. “Put something else on, Jeanette. Something we can all dance to. I would love to see Sylvia dance.”
Mollified, Sylvia smiled at Madame. Maximilian saw a look pass between Jeanette and Madame. Clearly the mysterious box required further investigation. While Jeanette was busy opening it up again, Maximilian jumped up beside it and looked inside. There was a black disc with a peg in the middle, and a brass knob with a sharp needle hanging from it. Maximilian knew at once what it was now – a phonograph for playing wax records. Count Arlington had once brought one home to Arlington Grove, but the Countess would not allow it in the house and he had to get rid of it.
Jeanette took the record from the phonograph’s turntable and replaced it with another. She gave the winder an extra few turns and soon the sound of an orchestra filled the little dressing room. Sylvia clapped her hands and whirled round. Madame laughed and waved her hands in the air. Agnes stepped out a merry tripping dance around the dressing table.
Only Jeanette stood, scowling, in the corner. She had the record that she had taken from the phonograph in her hand. Maximilian watched as she slipped it into a paper sleeve and tucked it behind the costumes hanging on the rail, out of sight.
“A phonograph?” Oscar said. It was two days later and they were sitting on the roof watching some fireworks far away in the sky over Hyde Park.
Maximilian nodded. “It was most peculiar. Whatever record was on there, she didn’t want anyone listening to it. I think…”
He paused. What he was about to say was most ungentlemanly.
“Go on,” Oscar urged.
“I think there is something rather odd about Madame.”
Oscar nodded. “She does sound a little highly strung,” he agreed. “That’s common among singers though. The artistic temperament. I once knew a member of the Spanish Opera who would lock himself in his dressing room in the middle of the show and gargle vinegar for an hour.”
Normally Maximilian loved it when Oscar told stories. His favourite ones concerned how Oscar lost his eye. Some days he would say that he lost it duelling for the honour of a beautiful Siamese cat who lived in the posh district of Mayfair. Other days he would claim that he’d been cursed by a mummy in the British Museum. This week’s story was that he had stared too long at the sun, willing it to perform a total eclipse, and his eye had never recovered. Maximilian liked the duelling story best. Today, however, he was not in the mood. He had stories of his own to share.
“There’s something else,” he said, before Oscar could tell him any more about the strange vinegar-gargling singer. “I was in the costume store today and Mrs Garland came in in such a bad mood.”
“That charming lady?” Oscar objected. “Impossible!”
“She has been trying to fit Madame’s costumes to her but Madame will not let her near her. She just shouts out her measurements from behind her door. Mrs Garland is beside herself.”
Maximilian bristled while he told this story. Mrs Garland was his favourite member of his theatre family. She had given him his first sardine. She had made him a cushion out of old velvet curtains. He adored her.
“Madame seems very difficult,” Oscar said. “Temperamental. Did I ever tell you about the Florentine clarinet player who refused to wear purple? Fascinating fellow. He held a world record for holding his breath…”
But Maximilian was not listening. He gazed at the fireworks exploding in the sky above them and wondered about a different sort of record altogether. The one that Jeanette had been so keen to hide.
The next afternoon the company was gathered on the stage where Miss Julier, the theatre’s musical director, was leading the chorus through a quick warm-up. They were singing very loudly to drown out the sound of the stage crew nailing together the set for the ballroom scene in The Duchess’s Jewels. This was going to be the most expensive show the theatre had ever put on. More expensive even than the Christmas ballet with the revolving stage and the crystal coach led by six live horses.
The tenor, Archibald, who was playing the Duke, sat at the side of the stage, looking bored because no one was talking to or about him. He was tall and well built and had a taste for fancy frilled shirts and suits in rather bright colours. He had a round, genial face with a neatly trimmed goatee beard and sideburns that he would spend ages combing into place in his dressing room. His wild, curly hair was tied back at the nape of his neck with a small bow.
Archibald was terrified of something he called “the sniffles”. His dressing room was full of bottles and pills that he bought from various chemists across the city, each of whom promised that they alone had the very product to protect his beautiful and precious voice. So at the time that Maximilian wandered on to the stage, Archibald was spraying his throat with a revolting concoction that smelled like pond water and making loud gargling noises up and down the scales. Madame Emerald was nowhere to be seen. Maximilian jumped lightly on to the grand piano in the orchestra pit and sat upright, tapping his claws in time to the music of the chorus.
“Wonderful,
just wonderful,” Miss Julier said presently, putting her baton down and smiling broadly. She was a tall woman with a beautiful smile that spread from ear to ear and then all over her face for good measure. She was taking special care over the music for the chorus and Maximilian knew that she was giving Agnes extra singing lessons after hours at the theatre.
Miss Julier beamed at each and every member of the chorus, catching them all with her eyes.
“Monsieur Lavroche will be delighted. Now, let’s run through the party scene.”
She turned her lovely smile on Archibald. Maximilian thought it was utterly wasted on him. The tenor looked blankly at her, peeled himself lazily off the scenery, walked to the centre of the stage and looked towards the back of the grand auditorium, ready to sing. Archibald liked to sing. He thought it was his “duty” to let everyone hear his wonderful voice as much as they liked, and he presumed that for most people that meant “lots”.
Maximilian hissed a little. He did not like Archibald.
“Shh! He’ll hear you, but you’re absolutely right. He’s a pompous beast!”
Maximilian looked around. Perched on the chair belonging to one of the second violins was Sylvia. Her ankle seemed to be about three times its usual size and was wrapped in sopping towels. Maximilian gave a little “miaow” of concern.
“I twisted my ankle, so I don’t get to dance today,” she explained, tickling him under the chin. “Stupid me. I tripped over a bag of something in the dressing-room corridor outside Madame Emerald’s door. I actually saw her coming out of it while I was trying out my moving pirouette, and as I went up to talk to her, something dropped out of her dress and tripped me up. It looked like a tiny sandbag, but of course that’s silly. Why on earth would Madame be carrying sandbags around?”
Maximilian frowned. Why indeed? The only place for sandbags was the fly gallery high above the theatre’s stage, where Bill used them to weight the ropes.
The Disappearing Diva Page 4
