“You don’t know that I told him that,” she retorted. But under my withering gaze her defiance faltered. “Oh, very well, I did. Because it’s true.”
“It most certainly is not.”
Planting her hands on her hips, she jerked her chin at me. “Why else would he have let you play Julia’s part, when I am her understudy? The only possible reason is that you have seduced him into helping your career.”
I took a deep breath, both to keep my temper and to support the many things I had to say in response to this. “In the first place, my career does not require that kind of assistance. In the second place, Kenton is not the sort of man who would do that, nor, in the third place, am I that sort of woman.”
Bitterly she said, “I suppose there is a fourth place?”
“Yes, only...”
I stopped. As fierce as Marianne was trying to be, there was still something vulnerable and confused in her eyes, and I remembered how young she was. This entire matter must be bewildering to her—and frustrating.
“Sit with me a moment,” I said more gently, and nodded to a divan. This time I did not try to drag her, and when I sat down and waited, she hesitated only a short time before giving in and grudgingly seating herself next to me.
“I wish I could give you a satisfying answer,” I said. “The problem is, the reason I went on for Julia is a secret, and the secret is not mine to divulge. I can tell you that it is a personal affair, in no way meant to advance my career—and that it is now over and done with. Starting tonight, should Julia be unable to go on, you and not I will take her role.”
“Is that true?” she asked guardedly.
“It is. And in fact, Roderick and I would already have left Paris were it not for this investigation.” The words brought back all of the anxiety that my indignation had temporarily shoved aside, and I rose. No more delays—I must speak to Roderick. “I hope that eases your mind somewhat,” I said. “And I hope you won’t spread any more rumors about me until you have confirmed that they are actually true.”
A sudden smile transformed her face. “C’est juste,” she said. “Fair enough.”
At least I had one less enemy now. But my situation was not much sunnier for all that.
When I found Roderick and told him how my questioning had gone, none of my protestations to keep his temper prevented him from charging up to the office to roar at the inspector. I could hear him through the door—as, I imagine, could most everyone else in the building. “This is an obscene miscarriage of justice!” and “How dare you use your position to bully and intimidate a fine woman like Miss Ingram!” were just a few of the phrases that he hurled at the officers.
In a few minutes, however, his volume diminished. I could no longer distinguish words, though I could hear his voice and the inspector’s. I wondered what the detective had said to quiet him—and if Roderick’s anger had been assuaged or worsened.
A short time later he emerged, silent but with a grim set to his jaw, and set off with determination in the direction of Julia’s and my dressing room. Naturally I accompanied him.
“What did you say to the inspector?” I asked anxiously. “What did he tell you?”
“The man is a buffoon,” he said in a growl. “A complete stranger to reason.” When we reached the dressing room, he caught himself up instead of barging in. This time he knocked with exaggerated courtesy and waited for Julia to bid us enter.
She was sitting at her dressing table as Hortense made adjustments to her wig. As soon as we entered, Julia jerked her head at Hortense and said, “You. Out.” Once the maid had closed the door behind herself, she asked, “What is it this time?”
Roderick wasted no words. “You are going to tell the inspector that Sybil took your place onstage last night.”
One eyebrow arched. “And why would I do such a stupid thing?”
“Because Sybil is in danger of being arrested for the murder.”
I feared that this would not be much of an incentive for Julia to cooperate, and sure enough, she said blandly, “That is absurd. Anyone can see that she is not capable of murder. Besides,” she added to me, “even if I did say that you replaced me, all that would do is place you here at the scene of the crime.”
“In that case,” I said, “why are you so determined to keep up the pretense that you were here last night?”
She gave an explosive sigh and turned back to the mirror to touch up her wig with a comb. “Évidemment, because all of Paris believes I was! Revealing that it was you would raise some highly inconvenient questions. Then the police might find out what I was really doing, and I cannot risk that.”
“Oh, you certainly shall risk it.” Roderick loomed over her, and his voice was a menacing rumble. “You are going up to tell the inspector right now, if I have to force you every step of the way.”
She slammed the comb down on the dressing table and sprang to her feet. “And precisely how are you going to do that, mon brave?” she demanded. “Will you drag me by the hair? Do not be ridiculous. You can stand there glowering as much as you like, but we both know you are not going to do anything more serious than threaten me.”
She was right. Roderick would consider laying hands on a woman in anger, even this woman, to be a despicable act.
He glared at her in silence for a moment, and I knew he was testing out other tactics in his mind. Then he said, “We won’t need your testimony if we have that of Ivey and the rest of the cast.”
She laughed. “After Ivey threatened them with dismissal if they breathed a word? As for him, his fate is linked with mine, and he would come under suspicion if it became known that he conspired on the plan with me.”
A knock sounded before Roderick and I could respond. “Mademoiselle,” Hortense called through the door, “the inspector wishes to see you now.”
With a triumphant smile, Julia slipped past us and opened the door. “I am certain you will think of a way to remove Sybil from suspicion,” she said lightly. “And I confess that I am most curious to see what it will be.”
With a rustle of petticoats she departed, pushing the door closed behind her. The slam with which it shut was as dire as the dropping of a guillotine blade.
I thought back on Clarette’s warning and wished with all my heart that Roderick and I had left Paris that same day.
The next morning changed our outlook significantly.
At Kenton’s request, Roderick had performed with the orchestra for that night’s performance. At a loose end and with little to distract me from my anxiety and from missing Roderick, I had frittered the evening away on a series of inconsequential tasks and finally resorted to retiring early. This was fortuitous, for it meant that I woke quickly and without much disorientation when Mrs. Vise burst into my bedroom at an early hour.
“Madam!” she exclaimed. “You must see this. You’ve been found out.”
“Found out?” I repeated, sitting up in bed.
She thrust a newspaper at me. “Your performance, madam. You were recognized.”
Mrs. Vise did not know the reason for my masquerade as Julia, but she did know that it was veiled in secrecy, and she was not the sort of woman likely to become excited over nothing. I took the paper from her. It was an English-language newspaper, and she had folded it back to the pertinent article.
EXCITING INNOVATION AT THÉTRE CAPRICE
Misses Julia de Lioncourt and Sybil Ingram alternate in leading role
Mr. Kenton Ivey’s new production of Le Château Fantastique boasts not only charming melodies and thrilling spectacles but a daring innovation bound to bring audiences back: As the female lead, two equally talented and beautiful actresses alternate performances each night, offering two different interpretations of the heroine. This ingenious device ensures that theatergoers will want to see the play twice—once to witness Miss de Lioncourt’s fiery, bold performance and once for Miss Ingram’s winsomely affecting portrayal. Mr. Ivey is to be commended for noting that the actresses bring different qualities to the rol
e of Elfrida, the beleaguered young maiden…
My first thought, even before I took in the possible consequences to me, was that Julia would be furious. I could just imagine her shouting at her servants (poor creatures) and throwing things. That entertaining prospect distracted me until Mrs. Vise asked, “Is this going to cause trouble for you, madam?”
“If anything, it may put me on better footing with the inspector.” I had given Mrs. Vise an edited account of the circumstances surrounding the murder, since I knew she would read about it in the newspaper anyway, and I did not want to cause her more worry by keeping silent. Though I had downplayed the inspector’s suspicion of me, her distrust for the French in general increased her anxiety for my welfare. “I must let Roderick know—and speak to Mr. Ivey.”
Roderick was quite receptive to my popping up in his bedchamber to awaken him, but it was a more difficult task to draw his attention to the reason for my visit. If anything could have made me forget what I had come for, it would have been the sight of him in bed: hair tousled from sleep, drowsy eyed, stubbled of jaw. I could happily have spent a quarter of an hour just tiptoeing my fingers through his chest hair. But I exercised great self-discipline and spent no more than five minutes kissing him before I told him of my errand. Possibly ten.
“We must see if Ivey knows” were his first words on the matter.
“And Julia?”
“She can wait. If anyone leaked this, it’s Ivey, and I want to find out firsthand.”
“Leaked it?” I repeated, startled. “You think he is the one who gave the paper this story?”
“It strikes me as a distinct possibility.” Then he took my hand in both of his. “I imagine you’ll be wanting to contact Fournier’s spirit.”
“The thought had occurred to me,” I said. “It’s something I’d rather avoid if I can, though.”
“Why is that?”
I wasn’t certain that anyone who had not channeled a spirit could understand, but I did my best to explain. “You know what he was like, how repellent he was even in just a few minutes’ conversation. If I channeled his spirit I would be letting him inside my body in a way, and my mind as well. The thought of that man in particular having that kind of intimate access to me is completely revolting.” It had been humiliating enough when in life he had leered at me, making me feel exposed and defiled. I did not want to feel his thoughts and emotions filling my mind now, invading the very core of myself.
Immediately he gathered me into his arms. “My God, don’t think for a moment that you should subject yourself to that. We’ll find another way to prove your innocence, I swear it.”
I thanked him with a kiss. “Then we’d better set about doing so,” I said, “though lingering here is a seductive prospect.”
“I’ll be ready in no time.” He started to push back the bedclothes, then grinned. “You may wish to turn your back to preserve my modesty,” he said.
“I wasn’t aware that you had any.”
“Fair point.”
But I did, inconvenient thought it was, and I rose from my seat on the edge of the bed and turned to walk toward the windows a scant moment before my ears told me that he had arisen from his bed.
From behind me came the sounds of water being poured into the basin and Roderick splashing his face. Modesty and self-control suddenly seemed like scant protection against the temptation to turn around and ogle the handsome naked man behind me.
“I’d better go dress as well,” I said, since I was in my wrapper. “It always takes me longer, you know, even with Mrs. Vise to assist.”
“As you think best.” Amusement was clear in his voice. “Just don’t look back, lest you be turned into a pillar of salt.”
Fortunately no such accident befell me, and with Mrs. Vise’s help I was dressed in record time. Soon Roderick and I were alighting from our carriage before Kenton Ivey’s building and mounting the steps to his apartment.
His manservant answered the door promptly and showed us in. Evidently Kenton was an early riser, for he appeared to be finishing his breakfast when we were ushered into the morning room. Sunlight gleamed on the silver coffee pot and brightly illuminated the newspaper behind which Kenton was hidden... the same English-language newspaper Mrs. Vise had shown me.
But there were other newspapers stacked on the table, I now saw—various French publications. I wondered if they, too, carried the story.
When his manservant announced us, the newspaper was quickly lowered, and Kenton beamed at us. “Why, this is a charming surprise,” he declared, and rose. “Join me for coffee, do. Jean-Baptiste, ask Cook to prepare a fresh pot and bring in more pastries. To what do I owe this pleasant visitation?”
Roderick nodded toward the newspaper. “I think you know, Ivey. We hoped you could tell us how this story came to be in the papers... and why.”
“Of course, of course. Do sit down, please. One can’t converse properly standing about like this!” For an actor at this early hour, he was in remarkably high spirits. He held a chair for me, and only when Roderick and I were both seated did he resume his own seat, with a flourish of his serviette that suggested he was quite pleased with himself and the world.
“Were you the one who gave the story to the newspapers?” Roderick asked, direct as always.
Kenton made a deprecating gesture. “It would have come out anyway. As famous and beloved as Sybil is, she was certainly recognized by some in the audience.”
I ignored the flattery. “But why expose my masquerade when we all worked so hard to keep it secret?” I asked, following Roderick’s example in keeping any accusatory note out of my voice.
“Ah, well. There I must confess to lacking the courage to continue keeping so great a secret from the authorities. With everyone’s movements that night being the subject of so much police interest, I felt that the consequences might be very serious were they to remain in ignorance of our little plan.”
Roderick cocked an eyebrow. “Then why not tell them directly—ah. The wrath of Julia.”
Kenton’s smile was touched with wryness. “I have withstood tantrums from actresses every bit as, shall we say, outspoken as she, and I would be a poor manager if I let myself be controlled by a fear of being disliked. But in order to maintain a fruitful working relationship and preserve the chance of working together again in the future—”
“—it was best not to burn that particular bridge. Of course.”
Especially, Roderick was too tactful to add, when one was trying to climb back to a former degree of success from a lesser state, as Kenton was.
“But do you think she will believe that it was a reporter who revealed the truth and not someone closer to the matter?” I asked.
My answer came swiftly. Rapid, staccato sounds from the foyer announced the arrival of a visitor in high heels—and high dudgeon as well, to deduce from the volley of furious French that flooded in when the manservant opened the door and Julia stalked up to Ivey’s desk.
“You are behind this story!” she burst out. “How dare you? I relied upon your discretion.”
“My dear Julia, please do not be hasty. Take a moment, sit, have some breakfast with us.”
For the first time she noticed Roderick and me, and her eyes narrowed. “I suppose you two put him up to it? Ma foi, what a despicable way to expose me! I should have known better than to trust either of you.”
“Now, just a moment, my dear. Sybil and Brooke had nothing to do with the story. But if they had, you should be grateful to them! Have you stopped to think how much this story can benefit your career?”
He had spoken the magic words. Julia froze in the very act of opening her mouth to lob an angry reply at him. For a few seconds she was immobile, and I could almost see the thoughts passing behind her dark eyes. Then she lowered herself into a chair, still silent.
Kenton clapped his hands together in pleasure. “I knew you would see it, my dear. First the murder increased interest in our little play—we had to turn people
away at the door last night. And now we shall have even more publicity because of what the newspapers have been pleased to term a clever stratagem. You and Sybil will draw repeat audiences eager to experience both interpretations of the leading role. Naturally everyone will have strong opinions about which is preferable, sparking voluminous debate. Your names will be in the mouths of everyone worth knowing in Paris! The publicity may easily cross the waters and waken a demand in English audiences to witness your performances.”
I could not help being impressed, by both his reasoning and his efficiency in halting Julia’s impending rampage. I was almost sorry to be the voice of dissent. “I’m afraid there is a difficulty,” I said. “Two, in fact. For one thing, I promised Marianne that I wouldn’t be usurping her rights as understudy anymore.”
Kenton shook his head regretfully. “That is a pity, but it is not Marianne that audiences will be eager to see as Elfrida. I shall speak to her. What is the second difficulty?”
“Well, as soon as the police tell me I may leave Paris, Roderick and I are going. I suppose I don’t mind continuing to alternate in the role as long as we’re prevented from leaving, but I cannot guarantee how long that will be.”
“What you mean,” Julia snapped, “is that now that my alibi has been shattered, the police will shift their attention from you to me, and you will make your escape as quickly as possible.”
“Can you blame us?” Roderick inquired. “Helping you has brought Sybil nothing but grief.”
That was stretching a point, for appearing in the melodrama had been a pleasure. But becoming entangled in a murder investigation far outweighed the benefits.
Julia’s hand shot out and seized mine. “Sybil chérie,” she said. “Promise me you will not tell the police about Fournier’s blackmailing me. That would be certain to make the inspector think me guilty of murdering the man.”
“Well, as long as we’re on the subject,” said Roderick blandly, “are you?”
She stared at him wide-eyed. “How can you ask me that, Roderick? After all we were to one another. You know me more intimately than anyone ever did.”
The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2) Page 19