They did not speak. A servant helped them into the carriage, then climbed up into the driver’s seat. Marie sat across from Madame Dessins, who watched her with a steady, narrowed gaze. The vehicle jolted slightly as it pulled away from the hotel.
“I did not expect you to return,” said Madame Dessins.
“You do not trust me, so I must trust you, madame. I place myself in your hands.”
“Paris is not your real name.”
“En fait, it is, but like you I am better known by another name.”
“And that is...?”
“Marie LaVeau.”
Madame Dessins frowned. “I believe I have heard that name.”
“If you had spent any time in New Orleans, you would know it well.”
“I have not been to New Orleans.”
“No? A pity.”
The carriage turned a corner and Marie caught hold of the strap beside the wall to keep from sliding. Her rear-facing seat had disadvantages, but she wished to observe her hostess.
“Tell me of your husband’s disappearance.”
Madame Dessins’s lip trembled briefly, then her face took on a stern aspect. “It happened in the afternoon. I was from home, visiting a neighbour. He received a caller — the servant was given the name ‘Banks,’ which I believe to have been false. The mayor inquired, and could find no one by that name living on the island.”
Marie nodded.
“He received the caller and, shortly thereafter, was overpowered and taken from the house. There were small signs of disturbance, so I know that he did not go willingly, but apparently it happened swiftly. The servants heard nothing.”
“When did this occur?”
“Two days ago.”
“Ah. Perhaps you will be reassured, madame, to know that my companion and I arrived in Galveston only this morning, aboard the Coeur Chérie. Your friend, the mayor, can have someone verify that, no doubt.”
Madame Dessins’s eyes narrowed. “Such accounts may be purchased.”
Marie strove for patience. “Our arrival was witnessed, madame. Any number of folk on the docks saw the ship come in, and saw us disembark. If you will not believe this, I cannot help you.”
The lady sat silent for a long moment. Suspicion gradually gave way to weariness in her face.
“Forgive me. I am — not myself.”
Marie ventured a small smile in sympathy. “I would be distraught, if my Christophe were missing.”
Madame Dessins drew one sharp breath, and gazed out of the window. “We are almost never parted, not for more than a few hours. It may seem strange to you, but...you see, I almost lost him once.”
“Ah. I understand.”
The lady shook her head slightly, and murmured, “I do not think you can.”
The carriage turned another corner, then slowed. Madame Dessins sat up straighter. A moment later the vehicle stopped, bounced slightly as the driver alighted, then was flooded with light from the westering sun as he opened the door.
Marie emerged, blinking at the brightness. For a moment, as she stood looking at a handsome, three-story house of brick, she felt as if a shadow hovered over it — not of true darkness but of dark feelings, dark thoughts. She closed her eyes briefly, hoping to see the better, but saw only the red of the sun through her eyelids.
She followed her hostess to the house along a pathway bordered with cheerful flowers. A maidservant greeted them at the door, failing to conceal anxiety as she looked at her mistress.
“Bring some tea to the parlour, please, Susan,” said Madame Dessins.
The maid curtseyed, cast one doubtful glance at Marie, and hurried off. Marie followed her hostess through a doorway to the left, which led to a parlour overlooking the front garden through tall windows. The room appeared pleasant but vibrated with darkness. Marie stopped still, just inside the doorway.
“This is the room from which he was taken?”
Madame Dessins turned to look at her. “Yes.”
Marie walked slowly forward, following the thread of emotion that lingered — panic, sudden terror — she came to a stop before an armchair, plainly the companion to the chair before which Madame Dessins stood. Upon a round table between the two chairs were a lamp and a small, ornate silver box. Marie held her hand over the latter.
“This is his?”
“Yes. Easy to deduce.”
“May I touch it?”
“If you wish.”
Marie picked up the box and set it on her palm, closing her eyes. The box bore his essence, yes. He handled it often, was fond of it. A quiet man, a thoughtful man. Intelligent. He carried fear — an old and lingering fear — but it was faded, not the same as the sharp terror that echoed from his abduction.
Was that all the box could tell her? She wanted something more. She opened her eyes, admiring the filigreed ornamentation, the pastoral painting that adorned its enamelled top.
“Was this a gift from you?”
Madame Dessins sighed as she sat in her chair. “Are you a fortune teller, Mrs. Paris?”
“Rarely.”
“Yes, it was a gift. Is that important?”
“Perhaps. May I open it?”
Madame Dessins shrugged. Marie raised the lid, revealing a tiny brass cylinder that began to turn, playing music. She smiled, then froze.
The tune was “Au Clair de la Lune.” It sent her back to the harbour — to the patisserie, the smell of coffee, and Christophe smiling.
“What is it?” asked Madame Dessins.
Marie took a slow breath, then gently closed the lid. A small grinding noise as the music abruptly stopped.
She frowned, confused. There had been no one at the calliope’s keyboard. Still, it was a sign. She looked at Madame Dessins, who watched in wary hopefulness.
“I believe I know where your husband is.”
The lady’s eyes widened. “You can tell that from the box?”
“From the music. I heard it earlier today, which seemed curious to me at the time. It is not the sort of thing one expects to hear from a calliope.”
“Calliope?”
“On the Calypso. Do you know the boat?”
Madame Dessins shook her head.
“Would your husband use that music to try to gain your attention? Or anyone’s attention?”
Madame Dessins drew a sharp breath. “Yes. It is a favourite song of his — our friends know that.”
Marie nodded, thinking. She hesitated to put the box down again. It might be useful. Keeping it in her hand, she looked at her hostess.
“What do you know of Whiteston and the mill there?”
“The mill is run by automata and a handful of slaves. I have avoided any contact with them, although they make beautiful fabrics. Beyond that, Whiteston is hardly more than a camp.”
Marie strolled to the window and pushed aside its curtain of fine lace. The sunlight on the path outside was going golden.
“You avoid automata always?”
“As much as possible. I wish no one to associate me with them, you see.”
“Of course. For then they might draw conclusions...”
“Mrs. Paris, if you know where Immanuel is —”
“Possibly. I am not certain.”
“Should we not go and try to find him?”
“I could go. You should not.”
“But —”
“From your reaction to my note I conclude that someone is trying to blackmail you, no? Force you to reveal your...knowledge...or to use it as they demand. If you pursue your husband, they make take you as well.”
“They might have done so easily before now.”
“Easily? Even though you are on your guard?”
Madame Dessins pressed her lips together. Marie turned away and strolled the room, running her thumb along the ornate edge of the little music box.
“My guess is that they intended to abduct you, but finding you from home chose to take your husband and blackmail you instead.”
Marie came to a w
all and turned. Madame Dessins had closed her eyes. She sat perfectly still.
Marie slipped the music box into her pocket, then moved behind her hostess’s chair and lightly placed her hands upon the lady’s shoulders. Madame Dessins gave a sob, quickly stifled. Marie gently stroked her shoulders.
“Pray for him, madame. I shall do the same, and pray also for guidance. There is hope, or I would not have heard that music today.”
She felt the tension in the lady’s shoulders ease. She rubbed a little longer, until Madame Dessins’s breathing was deep and steady, then moved around the chair to face her.
“I must go back to my hotel now,” Marie said. “I will see what I can learn. May I borrow the music box?”
The lady raised her head, fierce possessiveness blazing in her eyes. The fire faded as their gazes met. She swallowed, then nodded.
“Thank you,” Marie said. “I will return it to you.”
“You can keep it, if only you will return my husband to me.”
“I hope to, madame.”
The maidservant came in, carrying a tray which she placed on a table by the wall. The smell of hot tea came with her. Madame Dessins bestirred herself.
“Thank you, Susan. Please tell Rufus to bring the carriage around again. Mrs. Paris is leaving.”
The maid glanced at her mistress, then quietly left, not quite successfully schooling her features to neutrality.
So much unhappiness in this house.
“Can you show me a picture of your husband, madame, so that I may know him if I see him?” Marie asked.
Madame Dessins nodded, then rose and walked to the mantel where she picked up a small silver frame. This she placed in Marie’s hands. It held a portrait of a fair-haired man, smiling most unfashionably at the portraitist. Marie studied it, committing it to memory. This object bore only a whisper of its owners’ essence — both the lady’s and the gentleman’s — nothing near as strong as that impressed upon the music box.
The sound of the carriage drawing up outside prompted Marie to hand the portrait back. “Thank you, madame.”
“When will I hear from you?”
“As soon as I have anything to tell.”
The lady walked with her out into the hallway. “I wish I could help.”
Marie paused. “Do you know of a woman called Moma Shanti?”
Madame Dessins shook her head, which did not surprise Marie. Prosperous Englishwomen rarely had anything to do with voudon.
“Just keep safe, and be watchful. I will write or call upon you tomorrow morning, unless I learn something earlier.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Paris.”
Marie gazed at her and softly smiled. “We share a name, no? Call me Marie.”
Though her face still showed worry, the lady returned a small smile. She held out her hand. “Mary.”
“Bien.” Marie shook her hand and held it a moment, hoping to reassure her. “We are sisters, no? I will send word to you soon.”
Once she was settled in the carriage, Marie took the music box from her pocket, but did not open it. The painting on the top was of shepherdesses in far too elaborate clothing for their supposed profession. Turning it over, she saw words engraved upon the bottom:
Met again by moonlight, never to part.
Marie put the box away. She hoped the words continued true. She would do her best to help.
The sun was setting by the time she alighted at the hotel. The Strand was still busy, but the character of the people in the street had changed somewhat. Fewer women, and few gentlefolk. The clothing of most of these people marked them as labourers. Doubtless some of them were slaves.
The hotel’s lobby blazed with light from the grand chandeliers, quite as brilliant as any ballroom. Christophe was talking to one of the doormen, but looked up sharply as Marie came in.
“There you are!” He nodded to the doorman and joined her. He was dressed in evening attire. “I’ve bespoken a table.”
“I thought we would be uncomfortable dining here?”
“I spoke with the maître d’hôtel. He promised us a table that he assures me will be comfortable.”
Marie gave him a wry look. “How much did it cost you?”
“Never mind. Do you wish to change?”
She glanced at her walking dress, then at the elegant attire of those within the dining room. Defiance arose in her bosom. She removed her bonnet. “No need, if you do not mind sitting down with me thus.”
He offered his arm and guided her toward the dining room. “I shall extract your penalty later on. Is all well?”
“Not exactly.”
There was no opportunity for more, as the maître d’hôtel stepped forward. In truth, Marie was reluctant to say much about what she had learned, but over dinner she told Christophe what was safe to discuss, and knew that he would wait to hear the full details.
The table was at the back of the room, near the door to the kitchen. Nonetheless, they dined well, on fresh shrimp and oysters. A decent wine and several savoury removes complimented the meal. Marie felt the wine coaxing her to relax. She resolved to refrain from a second glass.
A waiter brought lemon sorbet in tiny crystal goblets. Ice in summer, extravagant. Marie took a spoonful and let it melt on her tongue.
But she did not forget Madame Dessin’s — Mary’s — problem. “What time did we arrive?”
“This morning? Just before eleven.”
So between eleven and noon, the Calypso had docked. And it had departed just before she went to Mary Dessins’s house.
“And what time did I go out?”
“At about three.”
A window of time, though she could not count on the boat keeping the same schedule every day. Still, the best chance to see the Calypso would seem to be at midday.
She talked of other things during the rest of the meal. Only when they went upstairs did she tell Christophe of her conversation with Mary. His frown deepened as he listened, and when she paused, he shook his head.
“A bad business. You would do well to stay out of it.”
“She needs help.”
“But if the mayor can do nothing —”
Marie laughed softly. “Like our mayor?”
She reached down to unlace her boots. Christophe slid closer to her, snaking his arms around her waist.
“There is not a reine du voudon in Galveston.”
“Yes there is. We saw her at the patisserie. Moma Shanti.”
“That hag?” he kissed the back of Marie’s neck, then just beneath her ear. “She is nothing to you.”
She smiled, for Moma Shanti had been beautiful enough, beneath her weariness, and Marie knew that Christophe had noticed her. He was violently loyal at times.
“Do not discount her. She may well be a part of our problem.”
“How so?”
“I believe that Immanuel — Madame Dessins’s husband — is aboard the Calypso against his will. She may have had something to do with it.”
Marie finished removing her boots and set them aside. She felt Christophe’s fingers working at the lacings of her dress. Thinking of Mary’s words, of her worry, Marie turned and placed a hand on Christophe’s cheek. He paused, question in his eyes. She gazed back at him, drinking him in. Ah, she would be frantic if he were ever to go missing as Immanuel had done.
She kissed him, and whispered, “I love you, mon cher.”
His eyelids drooped as his arms slid tighter around her. “Put out the candle.”
The patisserie was just as busy as it had been the previous day. Marie searched the faces at the tables, and while some were familiar she did not see Mr. White among them. Moma Shanti would have been obvious.
Christophe smiled and cajoled the waitress as if she had been a human. The automaton did not respond with coquetry as a human would have, but did give them a table by the fence. Marie noted that the Calypso was not docked. The berth it had taken the previous day stood empty.
She raised her gaze to the
bay, seeking the boat on the water. She did not see it, nor could she quite see the coast of the mainland, save for a fuzzy impression of distant land. Whiteston was over there. She wondered if she could hire passage to that town, and whether it would be wise to do so.
“Good morning,” said the waitress. “What may I bring you?”
“Café au lait for us both, please,” Christophe said.
“We have a lovely almond croissant today.” The machine could not have sounded less interested.
“Bring us one, please,” Christophe said.
Marie heard the waitress’s brisk footsteps departing, and glanced at Christophe. Not being in the mood for automata, she had kept her gaze upon the ships moving about in the bay, even when the waitress returned.
Christophe cut the croissant in two and slid half onto Marie’s plate, then poured café for them both. “Much better,” he said, wielding the two pots at once. “She remembered, and she must have noticed that we ran out of milk yesterday.”
“I am sure it is a most efficient machine.”
“You sound a little cross, my love. Sugar?”
“No. There is enough on the croissant, by the looks of it.”
She ate her share with little enthusiasm, though the pastry was quite good. Her gaze kept straying to the bay, and her thoughts to the Calypso.
The waitress appeared at the table to clear their plates mere moments after Marie had eaten the last bite of her pastry. She looked up sharply at the automaton.
“Will that boat with the calliope be back today? I so enjoyed the music.”
The waitress straightened, plates in hand and gazing out at the bay, as if it needed a moment to evaluate her question. “The Calypso comes in Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Since it is Wednesday the Calypso ought to come in today.”
Marie watched the machine, which stood quite still for a moment. It then turned to her and donned its empty smile.
“Would you like more coffee?”
The waitress reached for the coffee pot. Marie was about to protest when Christophe raised his hands.
“Ah, ah! Allow me to demonstrate, Colette. This is the proper way to pour café au lait. Observe.”
He picked up the coffee in one hand, the milk in the other, and with a flourishing gesture, poured them simultaneously into Marie’s cup.
The Shadow Conspiracy II Page 29