Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence Book 5)

by Robert Thier

  He disappeared, and a moment later, the first suspect entered the room. I tried my best to ask new questions without being too obvious about what we suspected, like: Have you worked here long? Have you ever worked for other operas in Paris? Are you satisfied with the wages Mr Ambrose pays you? (The last being more of a rhetorical question.)

  My particular focus was on the men and the larger women. I doubted very much one of the pixie-like ballerinas would have been able to drag a days-old corpse halfway through the opera house undetected. Still, I couldn’t afford to leave anyone out. So the day dragged on and on, filled with endless questions, until finally the sun sank beyond the horizon.

  Once again, the messenger boy stuck his head in the door and said something in quick French.

  ‘He says there’s someone outside asking for an interview,’ Claudette translated, ‘and—’

  ‘Let them in, let them in.’ I waved a tired hand. ‘I’ve conducted dozens of interview today, one more won’t hurt.’

  ‘Err…I don’t think he meant that kind of interview. I think he meant—’

  The door opened.

  ‘Good evening,’ an eerily familiar voice said. ‘I’ve come to apply for the post of—Mr Linton! Good Lord, Mr Linton – is that you?’

  Slowly, I lifted my gaze, dread rising inside me, to see standing in the doorway the slender, beaming figure of Emilia Harse.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Bam! Bam!

  ‘Let me in!’

  Bam! Bam!

  ‘Let me in, blast you!’

  The door opened, and I nearly fell into Mr Ambrose’s office. His arms shot out to catch me before I hit the floor, and he pulled me upright.

  ‘Mr Linton! What is the matter?’

  ‘I need an advance on my salary!’

  He blinked. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I need money! Right now! Please!’

  His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘My ears must be deceiving me, Mr Linton. I could have sworn you just demanded money. From me.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘After already making me spend an enormous sum today.’

  ‘Yes, yes! I need the money now! Please!’ I sank to my knees in front of him. To hell with pride and feminism! This was an emergency! ‘Right now! It’s a life and death matter. Please, I’m, begging you!’

  Ice flashed in his eyes, and he grabbed my hands. ‘What is it? Has someone threatened you? Has someone dared to lay a hand on—’

  ‘No! No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Then what is it? What do you need the money for?’

  I cleared my throat. This part I wasn’t eager to confess. ‘I need it for a dress!’

  There was a long moment of silence.

  Then another.

  And another.

  ‘You have barged into my office,’ Mr Ambrose said, coolly, ‘nearly broken down my door, gotten on your knees and begged me for help in a life and death situation, and now you tell me you want money for the latest Parisian ladies’ fashion?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, please, I’m desperate!’

  He cocked his head.

  ‘Well, well, Mr Linton…Paris has managed to do in a few days what I have been trying for years now: to turn you into a normal woman.’

  I would have dearly liked to kick his shin right then and there, but unfortunately you can’t do that sort of thing while kneeling on the ground pleading for help. So I punched him in the leg instead.

  ‘Be serious!’

  ‘I am absolutely serious. I am even slightly impressed. If I had known Paris would have such a positive effect on you, I would have brought you here sooner.’

  I punched his leg again.

  ‘I haven’t suddenly become fashion-crazy! I need the dress as a disguise, you bloody son of a bachelor! I need a cover!’

  ‘A cover?’ His eyes wandered over me in a way that made my cheeks heat. ‘What, pray, do you need to cover?’

  I broke down. I broke down, and told him all about the burgeoning passion between Miss Emilia Harse and Mr Victor Linton, and how Mr Victor Linton wanted to please please please switch genders in order to put a stop to any further burgeoning. If, at any time in the past, I had doubted that Mr Ambrose’s capability to keep his face stoic and stony approached the superhuman, those doubts were now eradicated. Not once during my entire tale did he even so much as hint at a smile.

  When I had finished, and gazed up at him with the big, pleading eyes of a tortured soul searching for an escape route from hell, he simply cocked his head, his eyes glittering, and said:

  ‘I see.’

  My finger twitched in the desire to strangle him.

  ‘And?’ I demanded. ‘Will you let me have the money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But Mr Ambrose, Sir! I—’

  ‘In fact,’ he continued, stroking his chin thoughtfully, ‘I have decided to appoint you the temporary head of the human resources department here at the opera house.’

  ‘What?’

  Eyes blazing, I jumped to my feet.

  ‘Ah. Eager to go to work, I see? I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr Linton. This great responsibility is a sign of my trust in you. It means that you will be in charge of hiring and firing all the major staff members. Some singers have quit their jobs over that little incident with the rotting corpse.’

  I had a horrible feeling where this was going.

  ‘No. No. No, nononono!’

  ‘Since you are already practised in interviewing people,’ he continued mercilessly, ‘you might as well interview potential candidates for those positions. I’m sure that Miss Harse will appreciate having a friendly face on the committee that will decide her fate.’

  Rushing forward, I grabbed him by the collar. He gazed down at me, as cool as if I wasn’t contemplating smashing his head in.

  ‘This is revenge, isn’t it?’ I growled. ‘Revenge for the free tickets! You bastard son of a bachelor!’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr Linton.’

  Tightening my grip, I pulled him down towards me, or myself up towards him, who the hell cared, and slammed my lips to his, kissing him fiercely.

  ‘I hate you!’ I whispered against his mouth.

  ‘Indeed?’ he whispered back, catching my cheeks in his hands.

  ‘If you say “indeed” one more time, I’m going to clobber you over the head with a wooden prop sword!’

  Releasing him, I took a few steps back and raised a threatening finger. ‘I shall be avenged! Be on your guard. It may take months. It may take years. But one day, when you least expect it, I will appear from the shadows and wreak my vengeance upon you!’

  ‘I think you will make an excellent head of human resources, Mr Linton. You obviously have a talent for the performing arts.’

  Tempted to stagger under the weight of my fate, but holding myself proudly, I marched out of the door, away from the cruel, cruel man who was going to let me suffer through this and who I most certainly did not love, no matter the evidence to the contrary. As I marched down the corridor and towards the lovestruck girl who was my worst nightmare, I was only cheered by one single thought:

  Wait till Miss Harse is introduced to the first French person. Just wait. It’ll be worth all the trouble…

  The Singing Butt

  ‘Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Do…Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Dooooooooo…’

  ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Monette.’ I waved, wincing. ‘Thank you for the, um…memorable performance. Your application will be considered.’

  I waited for Claudette to translate and, once the girl had disappeared, leant over towards her. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Zut!’ Sticking one finger in her ear, Claudette wiggled it experimentally. ‘I sink I need to invest in earplugs.’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ I took a deep breath. ‘I thought it was just me.’

  ‘It’s not.’ Claudette patted my hand. ‘Trust me, Monsieur Linton, for every good singer out sere, sere are a ‘undred people who cannot wait to drive met
aphorical nails into your ears.’

  Another figure stepped from the door that led backstage, dressed in a white gown and a brilliant smile that widened at the sight of me.

  ‘Speaking of nails,’ I groaned. ‘Here comes one to my coffin.’

  Claudette raised one eyebrow. ‘What is se matter? She is pretty girl, non? And she appears to be quite fond of you.’

  ‘That is the problem.’

  ‘Ah.’ Claudette’s eyes lit up with sudden understanding. ‘You are…how they say it in English…queer, oui?’[28]

  My eyes nearly popped out of my head.

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘It is all right.’ She gently patted my shoulder. ‘I’m not the same as all the stuffy English people. I no judge.’

  I opened my mouth to reply, but Miss Harse had already reached us, and I shut it again. Clearing my throat, I bowed to her.

  ‘Welcome, Miss Harse.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Linton. It’s so wonderful to see you again!’

  ‘You, too,’ I said with my fingers crossed behind my back. ‘This is Claudette Chantagnier, the prima donna here at the opera house, who is going to advise me…’

  ‘A pleasure, Madame.’ Miss Harse bowed to the prima donna, while Claudette scrutinized her intently. Poor girl. In a way I pitied her. Even though I wanted nothing so much as to get as far away from her as I could, I knew that singing in the opera was her dream, and I also knew that there was no way she was going to get a job here in France. Not after the introductions were over.

  ‘…and this,’ I continued, gesturing at the man on my other side, ‘is Monsieur Louis Joyal, the music director. Monsieur Joyal, meet Miss Emilia Harse.’

  Emilia did another shy curtsy. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Joyal.’

  It was coming. The end of the poor girl’s music career in France. Any second now. Any second…

  ‘Good evening,’ the music director said in heavily accented English. ‘Welcome to Paris, Miss ‘arse.’

  I nearly choked myself trying to stifle the sound of my laughter. My knees trembled, trying not to collapse.

  ‘Yes,’ Claudette agreed, inclining her head. ‘Welcome, Miss ‘arse. I hope you will enjoy your stay in Paris. For a lovely young thing like you, sere are so many fascinating opportunities in sis great city.’

  Wheezing, I had to support myself against a nearby column. Claudette glanced over at me, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Is something se matter, Mr Linton?’

  ‘N-nothing! Nothing at all!’

  I’m just thinking about all the fascinating opportunities that Paris could offer to a young ‘arse!

  Grabbing on tightly to my column, I just about managed not to collapse from laughter. I wasn’t quite sure the opera audience, on the first night when Miss ‘arse would make her debut, would be so lucky.

  ‘Well, mademoiselle.’ Waving a well-manicured hand, Claudette gave the girl a tiny little smile. ‘Go on and show us what a ‘arse can do.’

  I lost my hold and slid down the column.

  ‘Thank you, Madame! And…’ Emilia’s gaze flitted over to where I lay wheezing on the floor. ‘And thank you, Mr Linton, for giving me this opportunity. I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Whether you accept me or not, this is a dream come true.’ Blushing, she sank into another curtsy, and hurried onto the stage. I pulled myself back up onto my seat and raised my fingers to my ears, ready to stuff. A moment later, she opened her mouth…

  And sang.

  And it did not sound like the harpy’s screech I’d been expecting.

  Maybe she’d had a sore throat that morning I had first heard her. Maybe I had just been annoyed as hell she’d kept me awake. It didn’t matter. What did matter was: the girl could actually sing!

  Which meant I couldn’t toss her out on her apostrophised English ‘arse. Damn!

  Conspiratorially, I leant over towards Claudette.

  ‘Tell me she’s bad!’ I whisper-pleaded. ‘Please? Please tell me that in your professional opinion, she’s horrendous, and my philistine ears are deceiving me!’

  ‘Hm…’ The prima donna tapped her chin with a long, manicured fingernail. ‘Sorry to disappoint. She’s a little rough, per’aps, but with a little training…’

  ‘Don’t say it! Don’t say it!’

  ‘…she could become quite the famous singer. I think we should consider ‘er, mon ami.’

  I buried my face in my hands. Peeking out from between my fingers, I glanced at the music director. He had an expression on his face as if he’d just seen one of the three muses walk on stage and start giving him a private performance. I was doomed. Doomed to eternal misery.

  Emilia sang three entire songs for her captive audience. Finally, the echoes of the last note subsided. She ran down from the stage and rushed towards us. Or at least I think that was what she did. I wasn’t too sure, because I was still hiding behind my fingers.

  ‘Mr Linton! Oh, Mr Linton, I can hardly express what it means to me,’ she whispered. ‘To see that my performance moved you to tears…!’

  ‘Oh. Um…yes. Tears. Of course.’

  Quickly, I lowered my hands, wiped my dry eyes and tried to look as moved as possible for a person sitting perfectly still.

  Shyly, Emilia turned towards Claudette and Monsieur Joyal. ‘What did you think?’

  The prima donna gifted the young girl with a rare smile. ‘In my personal opinion, you did very well, child. But of course I am not se one who will make se final decision.’

  ‘I agree.’ Monsieur Joyal nodded enthusiastically. He looked as if both his ears had fallen irrevocably in love. ‘But I’m not se one with se power to decide, either, Mademoiselle.’

  They both looked at me.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Um…well…I’d have to say that…well…’

  Claudette stepped on my foot.

  ‘Ouchesss!’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Yes! I mean yes. You are hired.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Linton!’

  Rushing towards me, Emilia threw her arms around my neck and hugged me. Her lips dived towards me.

  Hell no! No, no, nonono!

  I dived to the side just in time. Her mouth hit only empty air.

  ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re so wonderful! Oh, Mr Linton, if there’s ever anything I can do for you, if ever you need something, I’ll do anything, I promise, I’ll—’

  ‘No!’ I squeaked, somehow managing to slither out of her stranglehold. ‘No need! It was a pleasure! The platonic kind of pleasure! And there won’t be a need for you to do anything whatsoever, not ever! Except sing, occasionally. But that’s none of my business. If you would excuse me…’

  I fled. As I ran for my life through the corridors of the opera house on the search for a safe hideout, I swore to myself: Mr Ambrose was going to pay for this!

  Dashing around a corner, I started towards his office. I didn’t knock. The moment I reached the door, I kicked it open and marched inside.

  ‘Now listen here, you—’

  That’s about how far I came.

  Not because Mr Ambrose interrupted me.

  Not even because I chickened out.

  No, I fell silent because of the man with the matchbox in his hand, about to set fire to the oil-soaked floor.

  *~*~**~*~*

  ‘You?’

  The doorman whirled to face me, and his eyes went wide at the side of me.

  Quick as a flash, before even thinking about it, I pulled my revolver and pointed it at his head.

  ‘Drop it!’ I growled.

  ‘Err…’ The doorman lifted an already burning match, which I hadn’t noticed so far. ‘Really?’

  My eyes flicked down to the oil-soaked floor. ‘On second thought, don’t drop it.’

  His shoulders sagged with relief.

  ‘It’s you,’ I whispered, gazing around the room. It was a complete chaos. Papers were strewn everywhere. Big packages of music sheets that had arrived just
earlier today for new performances were lying close to a particularly large puddle of oil. So was a heavy box that was probably full of cash. It was a good job I had found the fellow first. If Mr Ambrose had gotten his hands on a cash-burner, he’d probably have shot him on sight. I lifted my gaze to the doorman again. ‘You’re the saboteur.’

  ‘Please don’t kill me! I’ll do anything you want. Just please don’t kill me.’

  ‘Put out the match. Go on! Now!’

  Instantly, he did as I said.

  ‘Face the wall! Put your hands against it! Legs apart!’

  ‘Err…why?’

  ‘So I can do this,’ I told him, and kicked him in the bollocks.

  ‘Rrrrrrgh!’

  ‘That was for poor Claudette, you bastard son of a bachelor! Do you have any idea what you put her through with that bloody snake?’

  ‘I’m s-sorryaarrrnnng!’

  ‘And that,’ I said, lowering my knee for the second time, ‘was for getting that damn singer to quit and my having to hire a replacement. Do you have any idea what I’ll have to endure from Miss Emilia ‘arse in the coming days and weeks?’

  ‘Gnrgldrgl…’

  ‘No, of course you don’t. Let’s see how you like singing soprano!’

  ‘Slfnnk!’

  ‘Now, down to business.’ Quickly and efficiently, I searched the man for any more weapons or combustible objects. ‘No weapon. No nothing.’ Shaking my head, I slapped my hand onto the man’s shoulder, pushing him into the wall. ‘How stupid are you, exactly? You just thought you could come in here and ruin this place without anybody noticing?’

  ‘H-he said nobody would notice,’ the doorman groaned. ‘He said nobody would be here but musicians with their heads in the clouds. He never said nothing about maniacs with guns! And the money he paid was just so—’

  ‘He who?’ I interrupted.

  The doorman’s mouth snapped shut as if I’d threatened to force-feed him acid.

  ‘Never mind.’ My grip on his shoulder tightened, and I pulled him away and whirled him to face the door, pressing my revolver into his back. ‘I can guess. Let’s go.’

  ‘W-where?’

  ‘I’ll be the one asking the questions here, if you don’t mind. Move!’

  Just before we left the room, I pulled the bell pull. As we stepped outside, a messenger boy was already rushing down the corridor. Mr Ambrose had apparently trained his minions well. The little fellow’s eyes widened when he caught sight of the revolver in my hand.