Light Fantastique

by Cecilia Dominic

  Iris ignored the throb of homesickness and asked, “You had some questions for me?” She drifted nearer the desk, drawn by the manuscript.

  “Please, have a seat. This won’t take long, but I’d like you to be comfortable. I noticed there were no chairs in the gallery.”

  And he’s considerate. Or maybe he’s trying to make me let my guard down.

  She sat on one of the chairs in front of the desk. He pulled another one over, and she scooted back to ensure their knees wouldn’t touch. This close, she could see his eyes were light brown with a touch of gold, and they looked tired. That more than anything made her soften slightly toward him—they were all worn out with the constant threat of the siege from without and civil unrest within the city. Plus he had to try and maintain order amidst all of it.

  Still, what is a young man from London doing on the Paris police force, as an inspector of all things?

  “Now about what happened at the theatre.” He was all business again. “What do you remember?”

  “Nothing, really.” She flexed her hands palm-up. “We were in the townhouse and heard a scream outside. Doctor Radcliffe ran out to assist, Mister O’Connell right behind him. Mademoiselle St. Jean left after they did.”

  “And you didn’t follow them?”

  “No, I was talking with my—” What was Edward? Certainly not her fiancé. “My friend, Professor Bailey.”

  “He must be a good friend if you stayed with him rather than run outside to see what happened. Or are screams that commonplace around the Théâtre Bohème?”

  “I didn’t feel like putting on my cloak and gloves.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Iris recognized how stupid she sounded. Or lazy. Either way, not the way to get the inspector to think well of her so he’d leave her alone.

  “So let me see if I understand this,” he said. “A man dies in front of you last summer, and then another one on the sidewalk in front of the theatre where you’re essentially living, and you don’t seem to be affected by either.”

  “You underestimate me, Inspector. Some women don’t show their feelings outwardly, at least not as much as others. I was greatly upset by Monsieur Anctil’s death. Perhaps I didn’t want to relive it, and so I didn’t go outside to view the spectacle with the others.”

  “That presumes you know what the spectacle was. No, you were avoiding it for some reason. What were you doing in the townhouse with Professor Bailey?”

  For a moment, Iris thought he implied she and Edward had taken the opportunity to steal some caresses outside of the watchful eyes of others, but he didn’t look like a man having lewd thoughts.

  “It’s none of your business, Inspector.”

  “Perhaps it is.” He placed the suitcase on a chair and drew forth a folder. “I have a copy of your traveling papers issued by the French embassy in England last summer. At first, they seemed unremarkable, but then I noticed the clerk’s name who signed them. This is a young man we’ve been watching closely.”

  “Why? And how are you watching him from Paris?”

  “You’re a smart young woman. Surely you’ve wondered why an Englishman is on the Paris police force.” His challenging grin almost made him look boyish, and Iris felt herself smile in response.

  “Perhaps.”

  He laid the folder on the desk away from the ancient manuscript and opened it. “This particular clerk was found to have ties to an American entrepreneur. I believe you’ve met him, Parnaby Cobb.”

  “Yes.” Iris wasn’t going to lie to him. “But isn’t it normal for businessmen to have ties in travel offices?”

  “Not this particular one. You see, this clerk was in charge of approving papers for Frenchmen in England to travel to the United States, not the continent. He acted outside his jurisdiction, which is unusual, but we wouldn’t have caught it if we hadn’t been watching him.”

  Iris felt like Davidson was trying to imply something, but she wasn’t getting it. “So why were you watching Cobb?”

  “Have you heard of an organization called the Clockwork Guild?”

  “That’s impossible,” Iris blurted out. “He can’t be connected with them. They attacked our airship, Cobb’s airship.”

  “But did you actually see the fight, or did you head straight to the escape compartment?”

  “I didn’t witness the battle, but Johann Bledsoe and Marie St. Jean did, at least some of it.” Iris tried to keep her brain from remembering the fall afterward. Her stomach still got a funny floaty feeling when she thought of it.

  “I’ll get to Mademoiselle St. Jean in a moment. The point is that Parnaby Cobb has suspected ties to the Clockwork Guild, which has been implicated in many tragedies and which may be active in the city undermining the French defense against the Prussians.”

  “But why? None of this makes sense. They attacked Cobb’s ship to get at Maestro Bledsoe.” Iris bit her lip. She didn’t mean to implicate him, but she had the sense of discovering a larger piece of a complicated fresco or painting whereas she’d only seen a corner of it before.

  “Do you know why?”

  “Something about a gambling debt. He hasn’t spoken much of it. What are you really after, Inspector?”

  “I need to know what Cobb sent you on a mission for. You must have found it because the Department of Aetherics at Huntington University got a generous donation from him, and you’re able to afford the Ecole Archaeologie.”

  “Why do you want to know that? I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

  Davidson flipped to a page with two photographs. One was of Monsieur Anctil’s body. The other was a large man in a cloak lying face-up on the sidewalk.

  “Don’t you see how you’re in danger, Miss McTavish? I refuse to believe your proximity to these two deaths was coincidental.”

  Iris turned from the bulging, staring eyes of the corpses to the manuscript, which enticed her as a more pleasant diversion.

  Not now.

  “I suspect from what Professor Bailey did that Cobb was looking for an alternate power source to coal. Did you find one?”

  Not really. Iris didn’t trust her tongue, so she only shook her head.

  A hand on her shoulder made her turn, startled, and she found Davidson’s face inches from hers.

  “I’m trying to protect you, Miss McTavish. Please believe that. The Guild isn’t afraid to kill, and although your friends seem to think them dormant, they’re sneakier than you suspect. My advice to you is not to trust anyone with whatever secret you’ve discovered. But if you do decide to trust me, you know where to find me.” He placed the folder back in the briefcase, pressed a card into her hand, put his hat on, and left.

  Iris sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk, Davidson’s card barely held between her thumb and forefinger.

  Cobb working for or with the Clockwork Guild? Impossible! Or was it? He did want them to find an alternate power source to coal, which powered steam machines and factories. The devices that had edged the clockworks into near obscurity. And she knew from studying ancient history and espionage that often secret societies’ members didn’t all know about each other.

  Big hairy ox’s bollocks. This means he’s not as out of the picture as we thought he was.

  * * * * *

  Johann waited for Iris to leave before he exited as well. He needed a long walk in the snow followed by some practice time alone in the theatre to deal with the sexual frustration that had tormented him all night. He preferred to call his unrest that rather than guilt over what he’d said and the knowledge that Marie’s parting shot—that he needed to change, all of him—had hit home.

  But what if he didn’t want to? What if he liked how he was? He’d gotten that message enough from his father and brothers, that he wasn’t good enough because he didn’t value the same things they did.

  Consequently, when a rag picker approach
ed Johann and tugged on his coat, he almost snapped at the girl. He caught himself and instead gave her a franc so she could at least get something to eat. She curtsied and handed him a note before melting away into the sparse crowd in front of the theatre.

  Why are all these people here?

  Johann looked around and saw several people pointing to a plume of smoke to the east.

  “What is it?” he asked a man nearby.

  “There was an explosion, Monsieur. We are not sure what it means. Perhaps they are fighting?”

  “Well, it is a battlefront.” And Davidson said to be alert for signs of…something.

  “Oui, and we are wondering should we defend ourselves? The army has stored munitions in the church. Perhaps we should help ourselves to them, for we cannot count on the soldiers to protect our families. You are young and strong—come help us!”

  Indeed, several of the men were now arguing and gesturing to the church. Johann was almost relieved to see Inspector Davidson’s carriage roll up. The inspector stepped out and held his hands up, immediately taking control of the crowd.

  “There is nothing to worry about,” he said. “The French army has made a decisive strike against the Prussians and seem to be pushing them back. Go back to your homes and wait for word on progress.”

  Another vehicle, this time a steamcoach, rolled up, and several national guardsmen exited and took positions around the church. The crowd grumbled but dispersed.

  “As for you, Maestro, you should probably stay in the theatre or townhouse. Or…” Davidson plucked the note from Johann’s fingers. “Or you should perhaps go visit Madame Cinsault, as she requests.”

  Johann took the note back. “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s impolite to read someone else’s mail?”

  Davidson grinned. “Come, I’ll give you a ride. The city is tense, and a man walking along with something as valuable as your violin is at risk.”

  Dammit, he had a point. “Very well.”

  They climbed into the carriage, which moved after Davidson tapped on the ceiling. “Of course I count on you to pass along any information Madame gives you,” Davidson said, now in English with a perfect upper-class accent. “As a show of our good faith in each other, of course.”

  “I’ll pass along anything useful,” Johann replied. “Although I suspect you’re investigating more than the murder.”

  “I’ll determine what’s useful, and yes. You can ask Miss McTavish and Mademoiselle St. Jean, but you will find that our purposes are much more in alignment than you realize.”

  “How so?”

  Davidson patted the briefcase on the bench next to him. “For example, I know you are several thousand pounds in debt to the Clockwork Guild, and you are currently trying—and failing—to hide from their agents.”

  “Are you one of them?” Johann asked. He steeled himself. This is it, the end. He’s going to finish me. And what if Cinsault was murdered because of his resemblance to me?

  “No, quite the contrary. I’ve been tasked with investigating them and other secret organizations that have global reach.”

  Johann deflated at the words global reach. “Meaning I can’t ever escape them, so I may as well cooperate with you.”

  The inspector smiled with a cat’s grin. “Precisely. I had my eye on Monsieur Cinsault even before his untimely death, although I’m not sure which society he was involved with. I need you to gain access to his papers. Madame allowed me to look around his study, but I couldn’t do so thoroughly with the butler watching me as closely as he did, and I still lack a warrant. The judges are tied up with looting crimes.”

  Johann also suspected that the English-born inspector might have trouble getting the judge’s ear, but he didn’t say anything. The smoke in the sky appeared farther away in spite of them moving east.

  “That’s a good sign,” Johann said.

  “Possibly. The Prussians aren’t going to be beaten so easily, I fear. Stay alert for word of a counterattack and panic in the streets.”

  “Right. You sound hopeful about the possibility. Has the hunt for secret organizations not been exciting enough for you?” Johann bit his tongue, but too late. He couldn’t help but tweak Davidson, especially now that he knew what the man was—a spy.

  Davidson gave him a look of pure English condescension. “I’m ready for this stalemate to be over, as I’m sure you are. Although if you want to make your move on Mademoiselle St. Jean, you had best get to it.”

  “What do you mean by that? Surely you don’t have designs on her.”

  “She would likely not be pleased at your phrasing. But no, I don’t. She has been getting a lot of attention lately. Haven’t you noticed the ravens?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ve observed that they tend to follow only two of you around—you and her.”

  They pulled up to the gate in front of the Cinsault estate. Johann looked around at the large houses with their walls that were more for show than actual function. Or were they? “You’ll wait here?”

  “For as long as I can. Try not to delay any more than you have to, but be thorough.”

  Johann shook his head at the contradictory instructions but shook the inspector’s hand. “I appreciate any help you can give me with the Guild,” he said, although he hated to ask for help getting himself out of a sticky situation.

  “And I appreciate your assistance with this investigation.”

  Johann walked up to the front door, and this time the butler let him right in.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Maison Cinsault, 4 December 1870

  Johann found Madame Cinsault in her husband’s study. Unlike the previous week, it was relatively warm with a fire in the grate. Madame stood by one of the windows and barely turned to acknowledge him when he entered.

  “Ah, Maestro,” she said. “I’m glad you could come.”

  As a connoisseur of women’s voices and tones—mostly so he could know when he was in trouble—Johann picked up that she spoke not with flirtatious intent but with a panicked edge.

  “Is something wrong, Madame?”

  “Come see.” She gestured for him to join her at the window. Once he stood beside her, she traced a shape that had been etched on the outside of the window.

  Johann felt the same sort of rush when he stepped on stage and knew his father and brothers were in the audience. In other words, he knew things had just made a drastic turn for the worst. There, beneath Madame’s manicured nail, was a square inside a circle, the same symbol that was on the paper Monsieur Anctil gave Iris before he died. She’d later explained to him that it was a Pythagorean symbol showing the merging of the heavenly and earthly realms.

  “Have you seen this before?” Johann asked. He glanced toward the door and was glad not to see the butler.

  At this point, she cannot trust anyone, but at least we now know which secret society Cinsault was involved with.

  “Yes, on some of my husband’s letters. He kept those hidden from me, but I knew where he put them. I read them to ensure I knew what he was up to.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They were written in some sort of code. I can find them for you.”

  She walked to the large desk and bent over, giving him a nice view of her décolletage. He turned back to the window and studied the symbol, which was barely visible against the snow outside.

  “When did this appear?”

  “Last night.” She sounded mildly annoyed, so he turned back to her and gave her the admiring glance she seemed to want.

  Johann imagined the fingering for the Symphonie Fantastique overture melody to keep himself calm while she dug around under the desk. They knew less about the neo-Pythagoreans than the Clockwork Guild, and the neo-Pythagoreans seemed more mysterious and ruthless. They had gotten away with murdering poor Anctil, after all.

 
; “It’s a well-hidden compartment,” she told him. Finally she said, “Aha!” and something clicked.

  “These are his secret letters,” she said and handed him a bundle of them. “Please take them. I’m frightened.”

  “Was there something else that made you feel threatened?”

  She reached into her décolletage and pulled out a slip of paper. “This.”

  He read the note, which was in a different handwriting from what he’d received in the theatre—thank goodness—but it had a certain familiarity.

  Know you are being watched. Do not let your guard down for a moment lest you meet a fate worse than Monsieur’s.

  “This has gone beyond a jealous lover’s motives,” he said.

  She nodded and turned back toward the window. “Whatever Alain was involved with, he was obviously in beyond what he could handle.” She clenched a fist. “And he put both our lives and comfort in danger.”

  Johann had no doubt that if she could resurrect her poor husband and chastise him for what he’d done, she would. Still, he couldn’t help but comment, “I think he got the worse end of the deal.”

  She looked at him with a slight lift to one corner of her mouth. “So you feel he has been sufficiently punished for his actions?”

  “I would say being dead is enough.”

  “Ah, yes, but dead men are unable to regret.”

  The butler reappeared and with a bow announced a visitor. Johann stepped back from view of the door, but there was nowhere for him to hide.

  The Marquis de Monceau strode in and walked directly to Madame, giving her a passionate kiss.

  And here’s our first suspect. His dark brown hair was pulled back into a simple ribbon, and he wore an outdated velvet coat that would have looked ridiculous on anyone but him.

  Johann tried to gather his wits about him—what was he doing here? And why was he kissing her like that? One would think a lover would be more discreet with someone else in the room. Johann hadn’t seen the marquis since the previous summer, when Iris had broken one of the marquis’s statues after it attacked her and he had then essentially run them out of the city.