by Anna Lord
Library angel
Heavenly spirit of the book
Beautiful being
Luminous, diaphanous, mysterious
Sweet stardust thing
Fearless seraphim
Adieu.
The Countess could not concentrate while Xenia was lying upstairs, barely breathing, fighting to stay alive. She kept picturing Xenia’s golden plait on the pillow and Coco’s stringy hair on the mattress and Madame Hertzinger’s hair hacked off with a hatchet. Ink had splashed onto her paper when Crespigny first caused everyone to jump. It ran higgledy-piggledy in all directions like witch’s hair caught in a windstorm:
Little Witch en l’air
Stormy eyed, starry eyed
Wild and wicked
Sing for Little Mary
The song of Marianne
Mad Mother, bad Mother
Madonna on a string
Rag doll, hag doll
Danse, danse, danse.
Mahmoud and La Noire didn’t take long to decide the winners. The Sikh liked the word seraphim and the Negress believed in guardian angels. That settled it. Monsieur Radzival was declared the winner of the poetry prize. He accepted graciously and seemed lost for words when he received the enamelled gold and silver cigarette box in the style of Faberge.
Best ink blot went to Monsieur Delgardo. Everyone loved a butterfly and they could appreciate the delicate symmetry in the design. Pity about the poem. He was clearly thrilled to receive the iridium, gold-tipped, dip pen and was about to launch into a thank you speech when Crespigny cut him off.
“Shut-up, you old fool,” he snapped, looking flushed from too much champagne. “Don’t let Richelieu’s costume go to your head. It’s a children’s game, not an invitation to join the forty immortals. You are not being inaugurated into the Académie francaise.”
Best costume was won by Monsieur Davidov. As the judges pointed out, he seemed to inhabit the role, not just the clothes. The iron-browed director seemed speechless and humble for the first time in his life as he accepted the jet tie pin. He promised to reserve the first row for his two hosts, the inspector, and the Sikh. “Bring all your friends!” he said magnanimously.
As for the booby prize, that was won by everyone’s favourite critic, Raoul Crespigny. He had gone to the least amount of trouble for his costume, his ink blot was a featureless blob, and his poem was entirely plagiarized. It was very disappointing for a wordsmith. Everyone applauded unironically as he wept into his handkerchief and departed with an arm around the winner of the poetry prize to prove he was no sore loser.
Exeunt omnes.
Chapter 16 - Shadow-selves
Xenia began to show improvement. She took a little food and was able to keep it down. Her pulse was stable and she recognised the faces of those gathered around her bed. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
Fedir was dispatched to pick up the trunk full of marionettes, and then hire a couple of men to deliver it to the theatre for a set time, so as not to implicate himself.
The Countess changed quickly out of her Colombina costume and went off in the landau to the telegraph office to check if the telegram she had sent the other day had received a reply.
Smoking his calabash, Dr Watson sat by Xenia’s bedside and dozed off.
Inspector de Guise went directly to Montmartre. A private conversation with the Countess prior to the arrival of the other guests had him on a mission to investigate rue de Brouillard and rue des Lilas. It was his job to interview every rag and bone man he came across, waking them from their slumber if need be. The Countess had charged him with the task of discovering if a new rag-grubber had recently joined their ranks. He only had a few hours to complete the task for he was due at rue Ballu at eight o’clock. There was no time to change out of his costume so he went as Sherlock Holmes.
After speaking to a dozen rag-grubbers and discovering nothing of interest he finally came across a tatty Ratapoil wearing a battered top hat and a double-breasted coat that had seen better days. He was in a talkative mood and told him that a new man had recently moved into rue de Brouillard. The new man kept to himself and did not sleep on the premises, unlike the others who guarded their rags and bones as if they were crown jewels.
Rue de Brouillard was a charcoal-smudged lane lined with disused brick warehouses punctuated with broken windows where black smoke blinded everyone who came and went because charcoal braziers burned day and night in order to dry the rags that hung from the rafters. Some of the better rags were washed in cauldrons full of boiling water which hung suspended over small bonfires. The rag and bone men would stir their rags and pull them out using a spiked stick, then fling them over the rafters to dry. The stick was about a metre long and had a metal spike at one end to enable piles of rubbish to be turned over quickly and efficiently. The men could only work at night and they had miles of streets to cover. Scavenging efficiently was an art.
“What can you tell me about the newcomer?’ asked the inspector, trying not to inhale the noxious acrid fumes assailing his nostrils.
Ratapoil took a swig of something sour-smelling from a dirty bottle. “No one has seen him. He comes after we have all gone and returns before the rest of us. We only know he has been because of the ruts.”
“Ruts?”
“The wheels of his hand-cart make ruts in the filth on the cobbles as they go in and out his door.”
“Which warehouse is his?”
A bony arm finished with fingerless mittens pointed into the stench-ridden gloom. “There are no numbers. If you start this end and count seventeen doors you will be there. But there’s no use walking that far. You will find it bolted.”
The inspector acknowledged the advice but checked anyway. The hinged door fitted tightly into a wide brick archway. It was typical of the double doors found in mews where aristocrats kept their carriages and horses. This one was less grand, probably built for wagons. The warehouses must have stored onions or cabbages in the days when Montmartre supplied the vegetables for Paris. But the city had caught up to the country and the roads were better now. Vegetables could get to market in a day. The door was splintered with age, but it was still solid enough to withstand a battering-ram. There was no breaking in. The brick façade had one broken window, too high to allow for entry.
Darkness was gathering. Fog was settling in the smoky laneway. The inspector wanted to get the smell of rotting bones and dirty rags and putrid filth out of his borrowed clothes. He walked to the nearest treed square and sat down on a bench to let the wind blow through him.
He thought he’d been sent on a fool’s errand. He couldn’t see how rag and bone men had anything to do with the murders. If anyone obeyed the rules and regulations of the city it was the rag and bone men. The Countess was clutching at straws, indulging in wishful thinking, perhaps hoping that Pascal Leveret’s testimony about bumping into a man at the end of the rue de Brouillard might be significant. But as Pascal had pointed out: why would the murderer ask if there had been a murder? Even the simple-minded Pascal could see the logical absurdity of that.
Hang on! If the murderer really was clever, calculating and creative then that is exactly what he would ask! Who had put those words to him at the party? Was it Davidov or Crespigny? Or perhaps Delgardo? It wasn’t Radzival. He had been the voice of reason. It was most likely Crespigny. He was a smooth talker. Davidov did a lot of ranting. Delgardo did a lot of blathering. But Crespigny was good with words.
Was Crespigny employing a rag and bone man to assist with the moving the bodies? The bodies had all been transported from the place where they had been killed to the place where they had been found. And what better method of transport than a hand-cart? No one would pay attention to a rag and bone man going about the streets in the middle of the night. And the body could be concealed amongst the rubbish on the cart. Bloody rags discarded by women who had had their menses would disguise any blood stains and mask the smell of death. No one went near a rag and bone man if they could help it. Rag-grubbers
stank. Their clothes were soiled and stained. Another splash of blood would go unnoticed.
The Countess was definitely onto something!
The inspector caught a hackney cab to the Quai des Orfevres where he sneaked back into his old office - thanking providence for his Sherlock Holmes costume - and looked up Pascal Leveret’s address. He wanted to invite the young policeman to le Cirque du Grand Guignol. If Pascal could identify Crespigny they would have their murderer. A short time later he was knocking on Leveret’s door. His wife answered. Shabbily dressed, she was otherwise a comely young woman with intelligent eyes, a snub nose and curly red hair.
“Pascal is asleep,” she said guardedly. “He has the midnight patrol in Clignancourt. I was going to let him sleep another three hours.”
“This is important,” said the inspector, wondering how she knew he was Pascal’s superior officer though they had never met and he was dressed like an English detective, and then he remembered the caricatures which mocked and distorted while depicting his physiognomy with amazing accuracy.
There was someone loitering in the stairwell, listening; perhaps they also recognized him from the caricatures. He pulled the deerstalker hat lower over his brow. She continued to block the door, determined to deny him entry.
“Pascal told me you were not working for the Sûreté any longer.”
Her voice echoed in the stairwell. The inspector straightened his shoulders in an attempt to appear dignified. “I am currently on leave.”
“What does that mean?”
“I am on vacation.”
“Pascal never gets a vacation.”
“He will get one if he gets a promotion to captain.”
Her eyes lit up; the door widened enough to allow him to enter. “Come in but keep your voice down. What do you want Pascal to do?”
The inspector recounted Pascal’s’ visit to his office. “Your husband is the only one who can identify the killer. I believe the killer will be at the theatre on rue Ballu tonight. I need Pascal to be at the theatre for eight o’clock.”
“What about Clignancourt?”
“If no one is the wiser there is no problem, and if the killer is caught with Pascal’s help then a promotion is likely to come sooner rather than later.”
She understood. “I will wake Pascal in half an hour. He can sometimes be timid. He does not like to break police rules. I will make sure he is at rue Ballu for eight.”
“Seats have been reserved in the front row. You can both sit there. If anyone should ask, tell them you are my sister and Pascal is my brother-in-law.”
A telegram was waiting for the Countess in the post office. It was as she suspected but she wasn’t sure if it helped her cause or not. A friend of her late step-aunt who worked for the Vatican confirmed the Pope had no intention of establishing a hospice similar to Salpetriere inside the Vatican, and most certainly not in Rome over which he had no jurisdiction. They had no record of a Monsignor Jorges Delgardo, not in any of the Papal States, not in Rome and not in Colombia.
Ruminating on the significance of this information, the Countess headed straight to rue Ballu to observe the effect of the marionettes once the trunk arrived.
Final rehearsals were in full swing. Crespigny and Davidov were both over-seeing proceedings because tempers were running high. The three circus performers had been informed about the connection between the Marionette Murders and the theatre. They attempted to laugh it off but the strain showed in their acting which for the first time appeared less than naturalistic. Kiki was still upset about her sister’s death; her eyes were red and puffy from crying. La Noire was the only one who appeared buoyant. Her mind was fixed on la marquise’s claim that the Marionette Murders would be good for publicity and Davidov’s statement about going to America straight after the Paris Fair.
The Countess slipped in unobserved after paying off the doorman. She made her way via the back-stage stairs to Delgardo’s booth. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. They were just about to start the final act depicting the dismemberment when the trunk was placed in the middle of the stage. The two foreign workmen who put it there came and went without ado.
Davidov was busy checking the windmill prop with Hilaire. Lazslo and Salvador were looking on to make sure it passed muster and did not require further strengthening. Crespigny was perched on a chair in the wings, chatting to La Noire about the script. Kiki was perched on the chair next to him, absently twirling a ringlet of hair, a far-away look on her face. Vincent and Felix were tinkering with the limelights at the foot of the stage.
“What’s that!” bellowed the director, iron borrows drawing down darkly .
Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at the offending object.
“Who put that there?” rephrased the despot.
The question drew a blank. No one owned up.
“I think I saw two men carry it in,” offered Kiki after a length.
“What two men?” demanded Davidov. “When?”
“Just now, I think.”
“You think!” he mocked. “You think!”
Kiki hid her face behind her hands and began to cry.
“Oh for God’s sake, Davidov,” rebuked the playwright, “just remove it!”
La Noire stepped forward to take a closer look. “Maybe we should leave it. I could sit on the trunk and have a cigarette after I slice off the member. That way everyone gets to see Hilaire’s muscles and agony a bit longer.”
Davidov seemed to like that idea. “Check what’s inside, Salvador. It might be full of snakes.”
It was a joke but Kiki cried louder.
Salvador flung back the lid and laughed with relief. “It’s full of dolls!”
“Marionettes,” corrected Crespigny, peering inside. “They’re marionettes.”
“What is this!” blasted Davidov, glaring at the mystified ensemble standing around as dumb as doorposts. “Some sort of sick joke? Who the fuck brought this trunk in?”
“It must have been the murderer,” said Crespigny, feeling suddenly reckless.
Kiki sobbed louder, leapt off her chair and ran to her dressing room.
“It couldn’t have been the murderer,” said La Noire. “Kiki said she saw two men.”
“Who knows what Kiki saw or didn’t see?” said Vincent sympathetically. “She’s half mad since the death of Coco.”
“I don’t think she will be able to do the show tonight,” added Felix, the concerned violator. “How will she balance on the swing without falling off while swapping the fake dove for the real one? Her hands are shaking. I think she’s been at Crespigny’s la fee verte.”
Crespigny frowned and shrugged. “She had a couple of glasses of the green fairy this morning before I got up.”
“You’re supposed to be looking after her!” Davidov screamed. This was his big chance, his moment of glory, the night when the audience would be hanging on every word, every action, not just guffawing and spewing, but memorizing every gesture so they could boast about it tomorrow when the next Marionette Murder was discovered and everyone made the connection for themselves.
“I’m not her nursemaid,” responded the playwright indignantly. “Kiki can live with you if you’re so concerned about her mental state. I’ve had enough of rehearsals. I’m going to my sitting room and I don’t want to be disturbed until the curtain rises.”
The others shuffled off after him.
Alone, Davidov stared long and hard at the marionettes. He could have murdered whoever brought them in. Though who brought them in was not as important as who was behind who brought them in. Was it the murderer? Or was it someone who wanted to ruin him? He had plenty of enemies. All creative geniuses had enemies. La Noire’s idea about sitting on the trunk and having a cigarette was good. He liked that. It turned what could have been a disaster into a memorable moment. That’s what theatre was all about.
Hang on! He could do better than that! What if La Noire opened the trunk at the end of the act
and took out the marionettes and tossed them to the audience. The crowd would go berserk! What a coup de theatre! Everyone would make the connection to the Marionette Murders on the spot. And the next day when the sixth murder was discovered it would be his crowning glory. He laughed out loud, deliriously, madly, triumphantly.
Strutting from the stage with chest puffed out and head held high, he felt like Napoleon on the cusp of fame and glory.
The Countess had taken heed of the comments about Kiki’s mental and physical state and knew at once what she had to do. She didn’t bother knocking on the dressing room door.
Kiki had ceased weeping and was draped lethargically on a daybed, one hand on her forehead, the other hanging limply over the side in the manner of fey Ophelia or star-crossed Juliet contemplating the ever-after.
“Don’t be alarmed,” whispered the Countess when Kiki caught back a gasp. “I have come to put a proposition to you. Listen carefully. You are in no fit state to go on stage tonight. Let me take your place.”
“You!”
“I did some acting at finishing school in Switzerland - a Greek tragedy, Moliere, some Shakespeare - and I know what to do because I watched your rehearsal the other day. I’m very good at memorizing lines. The only thing I need is a costume.”
Kiki didn’t bother trying to talk the Countess out of her plan. She knew full well she was not up to it. Her hands were shaking, her legs felt weak, and she was apt to burst into tears any moment. Plus her heart wasn’t in it. Fame suddenly looked like a poisoned chalice.
“There’s a trunk of clothes behind the screen. They belonged to Coco. She was bigger than me. I think one of her costumes may just fit you.”
Kiki pushed open the trunk and pulled out a faded, white, full-bodied corsette, heavily boned; a flame-red skirt flared at the back. There was a red silk heart stitched on the spot where a heart should be. It might have been erotically risqué, but it came with an undergarment similar to a pair of men’s long-johns. The undergarment was skin-tight and skin-coloured and decorated in such a way as to make it look as if she were a doll with jointed limbs. She was actually covered from neck to toe. A pair of brightly sequined ankle boots matched the flame-red skirt.
