by Morgan Rice
“And so?” Pinsley asked. It was like the days before he’d gone into the army, when he’d done his stint among the dreaming spires of Oxford, and his tutors had prompted him with questions, expecting him to figure the answer out for himself.
He saw Kaia worry at that. “So we can’t be delivery people, but we can be fans, there to present a gift at the stage door.”
“Exactly,” Pinsley said, pleased with her. “It would not work with just me, because they would not admit some strange man demanding to see an actress, but a man bringing his ward, who is clearly a fan…”
“It will work,” Kaia said. “It has to.”
They made their way to the stage door, and Pinsley knocked upon it. A man answered it, looked them both over, and then his gaze fixed on Kaia.
“This girl was here before,” he said in French. “She wanted to get in, but I sent her away.”
“Ah, my ward was overenthusiastic,” Pinsley said. “She is so taken with the theatre, you see. She insisted on buying a gift for one of your actresses. Would it be possible for her to go in to deliver it personally?”
“Well, I don’t know,” the man on the door said. “It’s meant to be rehearsals.”
Pinsley slipped him a few francs. “It would mean a lot to her.”
“Well, I guess there isn’t any harm in it, and with everything that’s been going on, I guess one of the actresses getting a gift will probably lift spirits. Who are you here to see?”
“Olivia,” Pinsley said, deciding that this was his best chance to find out if his daughter was there.
“I don’t know the name,” the man said. “Still, with all the changes recently, who can keep up? In you go.”
He let them through, and Pinsley led Kaia into the theatre. There, backstage, everything seemed to be a tangle of pipes and ropes, pieces of set left in position to be hauled out onto the stage and props set out where they might be used. It was grimier back here than out front, as if the theatre had saved all its grandeur for the parts that faced the world. The layout seemed almost random, composed of whatever space had been left over after the main auditorium was built.
“That was a lot easier than I thought it would be,” Kaia said.
Pinsley nodded. “It also widens our pool of potential killers considerably.”
“Because anyone could get in,” Kaia said.
“Exactly.”
Out towards the front of the theatre, Pinsley could hear the sounds of actors delivering their lines, suggesting that they were in the middle of rehearsal.
“…Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel…”
Translated into French, the rhythms of the language sounded strange, changing the poetry of the Bard’s original, although the power of the play was still there.
“Come on,” Pinsley said to Kaia. “We need to find someone who can help us find out more about what’s going on.”
He headed towards the sounds of the rehearsal, both on the basis that it was away from any spot where the stagehand who had let them in might start to wonder while they were still there, and because it was where the majority of people in the theatre would congregate.
Pinsley found that he was correct in that, at least, because the space backstage was crammed with people rushing back and forth. Some wore costumes, while others seemed to be in just their normal clothes for this rehearsal, perhaps because their costumes were being cleaned between performances.
It wasn’t just the actors. Stage hands pulled on ropes to shift elements of the scenery, while a couple seemed to be moving gas lamps here and there to try to get the proper lighting.
The question now was finding a way to get someone to talk to them. Pinsley looked around until he found an actor in Venetian costume looking bored, probably because he was done with his part. He was a young man a few years older than Kaia, with swept back dark hair, a lithe frame, and an expression that said he would rather have been anywhere else other than at the rehearsal.
“Excuse me,” Pinsley said in French.
“I speak English,” the actor said. Really, this was starting to get tiresome. Was his accent so terrible?
“We were wondering if you knew anything about where the actress Sidonie was?” Kaia said, jumping in. “Only we spoke last night, and I wanted to give her this gift.”
That was a clever move, one Pinsley was proud of. Kaia knew that Sidonie was dead, but asking it gave them a way to broach the subject without it seeming wrong.
Pinsley saw the actor wince.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,” the actor said, with a pained look. “But Sidonie is dead.”
“Dead?” Pinsley asked, proud of his own acting skills for the moment. “What happened?”
The actor shook his head. “I don’t know anything. Only that this is our fourth Juliet in as many nights. It’s a wonder the city doesn’t shut us down.”
“Why doesn’t your director?” Kaia asked.
“Are you mad?” the actor shot back. “The show goes on. It doesn’t matter what happens. You keep going.”
That sounded to Pinsley like the kind of thing that only made sense to theatre folk. It certainly didn’t make sense to him, but he was grateful for it, simply because it meant that there was a greater chance of finding Olivia.
“Look, I don’t know anything,” the actor said. “Should you two even be in here? M. Lachelle?”
Pinsley recognized the bulky form of the director as he stepped backstage, and worse, it seemed that the other man recognized him.
“You should not be here!” the director declared. “No members of the public at rehearsal! Out! Out!”
Pinsley and Kaia headed back to the stage door they’d come in through, stepping out into the alley. There, the stagehand who had let them in seemed to be eating his lunch alongside another man in the same kind of simple, utilitarian clothes, smeared with paint in a way that suggested that he’d just been painting a set.
“Thank you for your help,” Pinsley said to the first stagehand.
“Shouldn’t be letting people in,” the second said. “Not with the killings. No offense, sir.”
“None taken,” Pinsley said, and decided to take a risk. “In fact, I am a detective, hired to look into the matter.”
“Hired? But you are English,” the second stagehand said.
Pinsley nodded gravely. “Which only shows how seriously certain parties are taking this, if they hire a man all the way from London.”
That seemed to catch the stagehands’ interest.
“Certain parties?” the first stagehand said.
“I must keep that part confidential,” Pinsley said. “But suffice it to say that those same parties would be very grateful for any information you have that aids in finding the truth.”
He was playing a dangerous game lying like this, but without his usual authority, it was the only strategy that Pinsley could think of.
“Well, everyone knows who has to be behind it,” the second stagehand said.
Pinsley looked at the man sharply. Everyone knew? If there was an answer to this out there and it could be found so easily, Pinsley was more than ready to hear it.
“Who?” Pinsley asked.
“Camille du Pont, of course,” the stagehand said. “An actress. She tried to get a role in this production, but no one would work with her. Particularly Sidonie. She is poison, that one.”
“And do you know where I might find her?” Pinsley asked.
“This time of the day? The Café du Mere,” the stagehand said. He pointed. “It is just a street or two over that way.”
“Thank you,” Pinsley said. He turned to Kaia, switching to English. “I think we have a lead.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The woman who had been Amelie de Fiaux walked through the departments of le Bon Marche, trying to make sense of the way her memories said that it was exciting to be in this grand store, with its sections for everything from clothing to luggage
, patisserie to groceries. It seemed like such a strange thing to be excited by.
Yet there was a different kind of excitement to a place like this. As loathesome as it was to be forced to walk among the hordes of humanity, and to walk in the midst of bright light, it was also an experience that would have been hard to have in any other circumstances. Being joined like this brought protection from the light, and freedom to act in the human world, even as it cut back on the strength and purity of the shadows.
This woman was different than the others the shadow had inhabited. Those had been opium addicts and madmen, their wants simple things, that they were easily driven to. This one’s weakness was both less and more, less catastrophic and obvious, but easier by far to use. The need to be adored was absolute, unchanging. It did not even require a steady supply of human narcotics to maintain, although the shadow that was Amelie now had obtained some just in case.
At the same time, she was… sweeter than the ones the shadow had inhabited before, more innocent in some ways, and more broken in others. It was having to pluck at particular strands more strongly than usual to maintain control.
We can make you the most important woman in the world. You will do something no one else ever has.
That was a matter for later, though. For the moment, she was going about her life as a French woman, trying to understand this city, with its human-made beauty and its delicious patches of darkness. There were spots around the places where the guillotines stood that seemed to thrum with darkness, and other places that held more recent tremors of violence, thanks to the bombings in the city.
As always in a joining such as this, there was give and take. The shadow was not Amelie exactly, but nor was it purely what it had been. Having memories of a life, even having a particular physical form, changed the way a being reacted, and what it chose to do. It changed the very choices available, with the role of a beautiful young woman closing some doors and opening others easily. Even now, the assistants in the store smiled at Amelie as if they hoped that she might give them one iota of attention in return. Amelie apparently already knew how to use such exchanges, and the shadow filed that possibility away for future use.
Amelie learned the streets of the city, and the names of the rich and powerful, although it turned out that much of the information the shadow needed was already inside her. It seemed that the actress had kept track of such things, with the hope of becoming a mistress to someone of importance. Apparently here, in Paris, that meant something.
For now, though, she was engaged in shopping. The acquisition of physical things seemed pointless to the shadow, when the whole of human physicality seemed like an aberration distracting from the shifting tides of the darkness, and the ability to flit from one patch of shadow to the next. Every item owned or bought seemed like a chain tying it to form over formlessness, but still, it was here, because here was the kind of place that Amelie might have been if she had just been going about her life.
“Amelie? Is that you?”
The shadow that was Amelie turned and found herself facing a young couple. Memories always took a moment when inhabiting a body, and so it took her a second to discover that this was Lucette and Robert, who were supposedly friends of hers. Lucette was a petite, slightly plump woman who wore baggy dresses that were halfway to being an artist’s smock. Robert apparently was an artist, and looked the part with his wild hair and the occasional smudges of paint on his features. The shadow could sense the kinds of fractures in him that might let it in, a weakness to drink, most probably, and for an instant it was tempted, but only an instant.
Lucette embraced her. “Where have you been, Amelie? What have you been doing? You were meant to come to Claudine’s for dinner, but you never showed up. And they say that you abandoned your role in the theatre.”
The shadow that was Amelie collected herself. “Frankly, Lucette, I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“Not my business?” the other woman said. “I’m worried about you.”
“Maybe you should worry about yourself,” Amelie said. “You’re aware that Claudine only invites you to dinner out of pity, yes? That she doesn’t actually like you?”
It was a thing that Amelie had in her memories, but would never have said without the shadow to push her.
“Amelie!” Robert said. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Oh, would you rather I said something else?” Amelie asked. “Like about the pass you made at me in your studio, the time you asked to paint me?”
That got a gasp from Lucette, swiftly followed by the appearance of tears in her eyes. Strange, how easy humans were to manipulate. They reacted so foolishly to the smallest things.
“I don’t know why you’re talking like this,” Lucette snapped, “but I don’t have to stand here and listen to it.”
“Yes, yes,” the shadow in Amelie said, waving a hand dismissively. The knowledge of how to show contempt was right there in the actress’s mind, even if she would never have done that to her friend. “Run along now.”
“I know you think that you’re too much of a grand actress for the likes of us,” Robert said. “But soon it will all come crashing down around you, and you won’t have us to turn to.”
“Why would I want either of you?” the shadow asked. She watched Lucette storm off in tears, then smiled sweetly at Robert. “Shouldn’t you go after your wife? Tell me, what will you say when she asks you if what I said was true?”
He swung a slap at her, but Amelie caught it. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have had the strength to, but now, she pushed Robert away with ease. The only reason that she didn’t kill him was that she suspected it would cause too many complications.
He stared at her for a second or two longer, and then ran off after his wife.
Amelie went back to her shopping. If some of the other customers stared at her out of the corner of their eyes, she didn’t care. After a minute or two, she left, being sure to take another exit than this body’s friends. Another confrontation with them was a complication she couldn’t afford.
Not with her mission in Paris only partially complete.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The prospect of maybe finding someone who had a reason to hate the actresses at the theatre didn’t fill Kaia with the same excitement that it did the inspector. For her, it seemed obvious that this was about the shadows, so looking for more human motivations seemed like wandering down a blind alley.
Still, she followed to the Café de Mere, where there were tables set up outside in a way that would only have invited being rained on in England, while Kaia couldn’t see the interior through blacked out windows. A sign next to the door proclaimed Can-Can! Les meilleurs vins! Animations quotidiennes!
Kaia almost ran into the inspector as he stopped short outside the café.
“Kaia, if the actress we seek is in there, I have to go inside,” Pinsley said. “But this is really not a suitable establishment for a young lady.”
“I’m fine,” Kaia said.
“No, no, I must insist,” Pinsley said. “The Can-Can is a most licentious dance. People have been arrested for performing it. I would be irresponsible to bring a young lady, one who is not yet eighteen, into such a place.”
“You realize that you’re not actually my chaperone?” Kaia said, amazed that the inspector would bring her here, only to want to leave her behind. Again. He was making a habit of this, and it was a habit Kaia did not like.
“But I do feel that I am responsible for your welfare,” Pinsley said. “And there are practical considerations too. Your presence in such a place might well invite comment, or see us both ejected. Then, we will not get answers regarding the murders.”
That was one point Kaia couldn’t argue with. Even if she didn’t feel that this was the way to go about finding answers, she couldn’t risk some clue that was important being lost because of her.
“All right,” she said. “But I don’t like it. I want to be a part of this.”
/> “I know,” the inspector said. He looked sorry about it, but Kaia wasn’t sure if that actually made it better. “Please, though, wait here. I will not be long.”
Kaia was starting to feel like a piece of luggage to simply be left whenever the inspector arrived anywhere. Even so, she nodded. “All right.”
“Good. And Kaia? Please, this time, for once, actually stay here.”
Kaia bristled slightly at that, but she let him go. She wasn’t a child, who had to be told to stay, but equally, that meant that she could see the importance of it all for herself. She sat there at one of the tables, and wished that she’d asked the inspector to send her out a warm drink or something at least.
It was cold out here; not as cold as it would have been in London, but still cold, and Kaia felt herself starting to shiver with it. It was also frustrating, having to sit there, not able to do anything to help.
Back in London, it wouldn’t quite have been possible to skate on the Thames this late in the year, but it would still have been freezing. Here, it was a more insipid sort of cold that got into Kaia’s limbs slowly, making her fingers feel numb.
There were other differences between the cities, too. The clean facades of the boulevards they were rebuilding here didn’t have an equivalent that Kaia had seen back home. Even in its richer areas, London was a tangle of built and rebuilt spaces. Both cities had their grand buildings, but here, those buildings seemed to be all white marble and grand columns, rather than the strange Gothic spikes of parliament back home. Kaia had the sense in Paris of a city being redesigned according to some grand plan, whereas London was renewing itself more chaotically, as great projects such as the railways demanded.
Thoughts of London made Kaia a little wistful. She loved travelling like this, and seeing a place that was so different, but London was the place she knew best, the place she could call home. Admittedly, for most of her life, that home had involved an orphanage where there had been no kindness, and no chance to get out to see the rest of London, but somehow, the city still had the feeling of home to Kaia. That was a strange thought, put like that, and Kaia found herself pondering it, trying to work out what it was about London, about England, that made her feel nostalgic now that she was elsewhere.
