The waiter shook his head. ‘It is most sad. Why the Professor was here just last week with his friends!’
Sophie’s heart leaped. ‘I’d very much like to talk to his friends – to someone who knew him well. Is there anyone I might speak to?’
The waiter frowned. ‘It is hard to know,’ he said slowly. ‘The Professor had many friends. But I suppose you might talk to Madame Delacroix? They were very often together.’
‘Madame Delacroix,’ repeated Sophie eagerly. ‘Can you tell me where she lives?’
But the waiter just shrugged. ‘I don’t know where she is now. Sometimes a studio. She moves around a good deal.’ Seeing Sophie’s disappointed face, he added: ‘But she is often here, or at La Lune Bleue of course. Ah, how the poor Professor loved to go to La Lune Bleue! Not for the cabaret you understand, nor the food – he said the food here was much better – but for les jeux d’argent.’ He winked, and then seeing that Sophie did not understand, he rubbed his thumb and finger together to signify money and tapped his nose.
Jeux d’argent ? Sophie knew that ‘jeux’ was the French word for games, and ‘argent’ meant money. Was he talking about gambling, she wondered? But surely gambling was illegal in France. What had a scholarly man like the Professor been doing, mixed up in illegal gambling at a night club?
‘If you are looking for Madame Delacroix, you will surely find her at La Lune Bleue tonight,’ said the waiter.
Sophie thanked him, and got up to go. As she made her way back along the cobbled streets, she was thinking furiously. She walked past a poster for La Lune Bleue pasted on the wall – the same scene of ballet girls and pierrots she’d seen on the postcard, with the slogan TOUS LES SOIRS – SPECTACLE, CONCERT, BAL. From everything that Dr Bernard and the waiter had told her, it didn’t seem at all like the kind of place that a young lady like Miss Blaxland would generally visit; but if she wanted to meet this Madame Delacroix, and find out more about the Professor, she would have to find some way to go there herself.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Le Palais Antoine, Paris
When Sophie returned to the Grand Hotel Continental, she found the suite looked rather different to the elegant place she had left earlier that morning. The table, now cleared of their breakfast things, was spread with sheets of paper, some of which were scribbled with Tilly’s bold handwriting. Amongst them was scattered a strange array of objects: the ends of several candles, a glass bottle that she recognised as having previously contained Miss Blaxland’s expensive scent, the bathroom soap dish, her own penknife, a box of matches and a bath sponge. Two or three books were lying open on the floor, and amongst them all was Tilly, an apron over her dress, rapidly leafing through pages.
‘It must be something to do with the acid … the chemical reaction …’ she was muttering to herself.
Sophie picked her way carefully between the books. She very much hoped that none of the hotel staff had been in the room because, sitting on the floor with ink stains on her fingers and her hair skewered up with a pencil, Tilly had never looked less like a lady’s maid in her life.
‘I found the Café Monique,’ she began. ‘The waiter there knew the Professor!’
‘Mmmm?’ said Tilly, clearly not listening to a word that she was saying.
‘It turns out that he spent rather a lot of time at La Lune Bleue – that cabaret place I told you about. It sounds like he might have had rather a gambling habit! If he’d been involved in illicit gaming … well, it would go a long way to explaining all those debts, wouldn’t it?’
‘Mmmm,’ said Tilly, with about as much interest as if Sophie had been reciting what she had eaten for breakfast. Sophie sighed and gave up. She knew Tilly well enough to know that there was simply no point in trying to make her think about anything else when she was engrossed in her work. Besides, the faster she worked, the sooner they might know what the Professor’s papers said. For a moment, Sophie watched her, feverishly leafing through pages and then scribbling something with her pencil in her spiky, illegible writing. What it must be like to study something you were so passionate about, to immerse yourself in a subject like that? For a moment she felt a sharp flash of envy – for Tilly, and for Miss Blaxland too. In another world, a world in which Papa and Mama were still alive, in which the Baron and the Fraternitas Draconum had never existed, perhaps she herself would have been making plans to go to university. Her thoughts would be full of entrance exams and subjects she would study, the books she would need and the friends she would make. But instead, she was here, her thoughts a jumble of a murdered British agent, secret papers and German spies.
It was a strange kind of thought, and to distract herself, she wandered through into her bedroom to look for a gown to wear for the dinner to launch the Grand Aerial Tour that evening. She knew it would be a very grand occasion and she wanted to be sure that she looked the part, but none of the frocks she had brought seemed quite right. That ruffled white dress was simply too frilly – she’d look like she was dressed from head to toe in meringue. The violet gown was certainly fashionable, but had a hobble, skirt so tight she’d barely be able to take a step. And as for the black silk, surely that was far too severe for such a glamorous celebration?
She did not dare ask Tilly what she thought – she was far too immersed in her task, and besides, Sophie had promised her she wouldn’t need to think about even so much as a petticoat. She suddenly wished more than ever that Lil was there with them. She knew that Lil would understand how much being here in Paris made her think of her mother and the other life that could have been; and she knew too that her friend would have entered enthusiastically into a discussion about which frock Miss Blaxland ought to wear to a grand dinner. Lil would be bubbling over with thoughts and ideas and theories about the Blaxland investigation, and Sophie could barely even imagine the wild schemes she would conjure up to get them inside La Lune Bleue ! She’d probably have them disguised as can-can girls or circus performers, she thought, grinning to herself.
With Billy’s words about Miss Blaxland ringing in her ears (‘She’s bound to have the very latest thing!’) she finally settled on a stylish evening dress of rich blue silk overlaid with lace. It was expensive-looking and elegant, but not too showy, and she’d be able to move more comfortably in the draped skirt. Besides, it would hardly be appropriate for Miss Blaxland to wear anything too eye-catching: even if she had barely known him, she must not forget that Miss Blaxland was here in Paris because of her uncle’s death. Sophie completed the outfit with long gloves, a lacy fan and the pearl earrings, and after a good deal of wrangling with hair-pins and combs, she finally managed to skewer her hair into the fashionable arrangement that Miss Blaxland favoured, securing it with a blue silk bandeau that she knew Lil would have loved. Satisfied with her reflection at last, she sat down gingerly in a chair by the window, too fearful of rumpling her gown or disarranging her hair to do anything else.
Besides, it would give her time to organise her thoughts, she decided, looking out on the view of the street and the park below. There was much to try to consider: the discovery that the Professor might have been taking part in illegal gambling with his bohemian friends at La Lune Bleue, the papers written in invisible ink, the empty safe. But most of all, her thoughts kept drawing her back to the book about alchemy with the illustration of the green lion. I am the green lion without cares … why did that phrase ‘green lion’ seem so meaningful to her? Thinking of it now, she felt as if she was catching at the fragile edge of a memory, like pulling at a loose thread, but even as she grasped for it, it slipped out of her reach and disappeared altogether. It was all a fearful muddle, and she wished all over again that Lil was there to chew it over with her, and make her feel as though she was equal to the task of unravelling it.
At seven o’clock, she went down to the hotel foyer to meet Dr Bernard, very dapper in black-and-white evening dress, with a fresh carnation boutonnière and his little moustache even more neatly waxed than before. He g
reeted her warmly, with an extravagant flood of compliments upon her appearance – ‘You look most beautiful, Miss Blaxland – most elegant, most charming!’ – before offering her his arm.
Sophie accepted it graciously. She was rather looking forward to seeing what Dr Bernard could tell her about Professor Blaxland – perhaps he might even be able to answer some of the questions that were troubling her. Attending a grand dinner on the arm of an admiring young man was rather outside the scope of her usual detective duties, and certainly a contrast to the previous night’s activities, she reflected, as he handed her carefully into a waiting carriage.
The Palais Antoine proved to be an elegant building, set in pretty formal gardens. It had been built for the Paris Exposition in 1900, and now housed a fine art collection. Sophie’s silk skirts swished across the marble floor as they made their way into the Salon, where dinner was to be served. The spacious room, hung with paintings in ornate frames, was already full of people: Sophie saw gentlemen in evening dress, and ladies bedecked with jewels. At a table in the middle of the room, she observed Captain Nakamura now wearing a splendid dress-uniform with gold epaulettes on the shoulders. When he caught sight of her, he nodded, and flashed her a quick smile.
It was nice to see a friendly face, but all the same, Sophie felt relieved when they were directed away from him to one end of a much less prominent table in a corner of the room. From there, they would be a little more out of sight, whilst still being able to observe all the goings-on. Amongst the gathered people, Sophie spotted the fashion designer César Chevalier, and felt more relieved than ever that they were in a quiet corner. She certainly did not want to risk M. Chevalier recognising her from London, and sweeping over to talk about Sinclair’s.
A string quartet played a sedate waltz while they nibbled their first course – delicate mouthfuls of pâté served on slices of toasted brioche, little quail’s eggs and tiny stuffed mushrooms that seemed almost too pretty to eat. After some carefully general conversation and several more flowery compliments from Dr Bernard, Sophie steered the conversation towards Professor Blaxland’s research: ‘Do tell me a little more about his work,’ she began.
‘It is hard to know where to start,’ said Dr Bernard, as their fish dishes were placed in front of them with a flourish. ‘Professor Blaxland had a very wide field of study. He seemed to know about everything. Old English, Medieval French, Greek … He is a great loss to the university.’
‘Do you know if he had any particular interest in alchemy?’ she asked. Dr Bernard looked surprised by the question, so she explained: ‘I noticed he had some books on the subject and I was curious about it. I must confess I don’t exactly know what alchemy is.’
‘It is not something I know a great deal about myself, but it is certainly most interesting,’ said Dr Bernard readily. ‘Alchemy is a forerunner of our modern chemistry, dating back to ancient times. The alchemists were interested in learning how to turn ordinary metals, like lead, into gold. They also believed in the existence of an elixir which granted immortality – the power to defeat death.’
The power to defeat death ? Sophie listened, intrigued, as Dr Bernard went on: ‘Whilst, of course, such an elixir could not possibly have existed, the alchemists did have an important influence on shaping early science. Our chemists today still use some of their methods. They were very secretive about their discoveries, and hid their knowledge in books full of cryptic symbols. They had their own systems of secret signs and ciphers – I imagine that is what interested your uncle.’
Sophie pricked up her ears at once. ‘Oh, was he interested in that sort of thing?’ she asked innocently. Was there any chance that Dr Bernard might know about the Professor’s secret work for the Bureau?
‘Yes, very much so,’ said Dr Bernard. ‘He was quite an expert in that field. He did some very interesting research on Ancient Greek ciphers and medieval cryptography.’
‘I had no idea,’ said Sophie, careful to keep her voice light and casual. ‘So, what kind of ciphers and symbols did the alchemists use?’
‘Often quite simple things. A crescent moon might denote silver, for example, or a triangle could represent a flame. But they also used more complex imagery – symbolic illustrations of animals or mythical creatures. If you’re interested in alchemy, there are a number of places in the city you could visit,’ he went on, as the waiter brought them their next course – duck served with red wine and potatoes dauphinoise. ‘Nicholas Flamel was one of the most important alchemists – I believe you can see his tombstone, carved all over with alchemical symbols, at the Musée de Cluny. Then of course there was the Comte de Saint-Germain: a rather interesting character from the court of King Louis XV, who was believed to possess the elixir of life …’
But just then, a sudden hush fell over the crowded room, and Dr Bernard fell silent. A gentleman had risen to speak, and even before he had introduced himself, Sophie knew that he must be their host for the evening – Sir Chester Norton. She’d never seen the newspaper magnate in person before, although she’d heard his name plenty of times: he was one of the most successful businessmen in Europe. He was an intelligent-looking man, in his fifties, with greying hair parted neatly and smoothly to one side. When he spoke it was brisk and brief: Sophie thought how different his no-nonsense manner was from Mr Sinclair’s flair and showmanship.
‘Ladies and gentleman,’ began Sir Chester, getting straight to the point. ‘I am pleased to welcome you here today to celebrate the Grand Aerial Tour of Europe. Norton Newspapers are proud to be launching this, the longest air race to date, and to be offering a grand prize of £10,000 for the first pilot to complete the full circuit of Europe.’ There was an appreciative burst of applause before Sir Chester cleared his throat and went on: ‘Our pilots will be making stops in nine different countries, each of which I am delighted to say has pledged their support for our endeavour. They will allow our pilots to pass across their borders without hold-ups, and at each stage, will provide the fullest technical assistance.’
There was another smattering of applause, and Sir Chester continued: ‘As some of you will be aware, there has been some suggestion in certain corners of the press that this is merely a stunt to sell newspapers.’ He paused and lifted his eyebrows ironically to a burst of laughter from the audience. ‘However, those of you who know me personally will already be aware of my sincere commitment to promoting aviation, which I consider to be the most significant area of technological advancement of this century, and which could soon allow all of us to travel across Europe more swiftly and easily than we have ever dreamed.’ He paused again to allow for another flutter of applause. ‘I hope you will join me tomorrow for the start of the race, commencing at twelve noon, and for now, I invite you to join me in a toast to the good health and success of the twelve intrepid young pilots who will be setting out for the skies tomorrow,’ he concluded, gesturing to Captain Nakamura and the gentlemen sitting with him at the most prominent table.
They did so, and then there was more applause as Sir Chester returned to his seat.
‘It is quite incredible, imagining that we could soon be able to travel across the world by air,’ said Dr Bernard, with an astonished shake of the head.
‘I think aeroplanes will need to become a great deal safer before that happens,’ said Sophie. She’d read so many stories about unpleasant aviation accidents in the newspaper and she couldn’t imagine anything much more terrifying than being propelled up into the sky, with nothing to support you but a flimsy contraption of wood and canvas and wire. But she spoke a little absently: she was still watching Sir Chester, who had turned to say something rapid to a young woman who had been standing on the sidelines during his speech, scribbling vigorously in a notebook. She was simply dressed, making her stand out at once in a room full of rich satin gowns and the glitter of jewels.
‘Do you know who that is?’ she asked Dr Bernard, but he only shook his head.
The waiters had appeared once again, this time w
ith ice cream garnished with rich chocolate sauce and black cherries. Realising that dinner was coming to an end, Sophie decided the time had come to ask Dr Bernard again about the Professor’s gambling.
‘I found the Café Monique today,’ she began, as she picked up a spoon. ‘It’s in Montmartre. Rather a famous place, as it turns out. It sounds like my uncle spent rather a lot of time there, and at La Lune Bleue too.’ She paused as Dr Bernard turned a delicate shade of pink.
‘Ah,’ he said awkwardly, twitching his moustache. ‘I am very sorry, Miss Blaxland. Please believe me when I say that I did not mean to deceive you. It is simply that, well, places like La Lune Bleue are not very respectable. Full of artists and models and dancers, and so on. I thought you might be shocked to learn that your uncle spent time there.’
‘Not at all, Dr Bernard. Though I might have preferred to learn that he had a taste for illegal gambling from someone other than a waiter in a café.’
Dr Bernard’s cheeks flushed more than ever. ‘I do beg your pardon, Miss Blaxland. I did not wish to cause you any more distress,’ he said sincerely.
The only thing that was likely to cause her distress, thought Sophie in annoyance, was people’s constant attempts to keep her wrapped up in cotton wool, as if she was not a real girl at all, but a fragile porcelain doll that could be shattered at any moment. She knew that Dr Bernard meant well, but all the same she felt a stab of irritation that threatened to spoil her enjoyment of her ice. It seemed that Miss Blaxland could be as independent and modern and educated as she liked, but everyone she met was still trying to tell her what to do and what to think. She wouldn’t swap places with her for the world, Sophie thought suddenly: not even all her wealth, and her beautiful clothes, and her expensive hotel suites would be worth that.
Dr Bernard looked acutely uncomfortable, and she took pity on him. ‘Never mind about it now. The thing is, it turns out he was in rather a lot of debt; I daresay he had lost money at the card table. Did he ever talk to you about anything like that?’
Peril in Paris (Taylor and Rose Secret Agents) Page 12