“And why did she think she could do that?” There was a nasty taste at the back of Hamish’s throat.
“Because she’s clever! And it would make us famous!” Celeste shifted in her chair and sent him an irritated look. “Do you think we enjoy what we have to do to get the necessities of life? Lily is in quite desperate straits, obviously, otherwise she wouldn’t have sunk all her scruples to get you to agree. I lived with her for two months. I know what she’s like.” She pouted. “So, are you going to put our photograph in your newspaper?”
“I haven’t decided.” Hamish put down his unfinished drink and rose. “Do you know where I’d find Mrs Eustace?”
“No. I thought you’d be eating out of her hand by now.” Celeste sounded sulky as poured herself another drink.
Hamish paused. “What do you know of what she was doing before she came to London?”
Celeste shrugged, her face averted. “Didn’t talk much, that one. Certainly not to me. Though I heard rumours.” She tilted her chin, an artful manoeuvre clearly designed to show her profile to best effect. “Do you promise to publish my photograph in your newspaper if I tell you everything I know about Lily Eustace and everything I’ve heard people say about her?”
Hamish returned her look. “No,” he said, carefully. “But I promise I won’t print your photograph if you don’t tell me everything you know about Lily Eustace and everything you’ve heard people say about her.”
Celeste merely smiled as she knocked back her drink. “Where do I start?” She stretched langorously, and her decolletage fell open, revealing one creamy breast as she said huskily, “There really is so much to tell you about mad, bad Lily Bradden.”
Chapter 19
All day, Lily had waited. But there had been no word from Mr McTavish. Feeling ill and dejected, she’d made her way to Mrs Moore’s for another Thursday performance.
“Dammit woman, wot’s got inter yer?” Mr Montpelier appeared like a wraith, standing upon the bottom step as he peered into the dimly lit cellar, his speech reverting to the gutter, no doubt due to his stress. “The crowd is growin’ impatient.”
Lily jerked into the present and wrapped her stole about her shoulders. There was nothing to say to him other than to obediently gather whatever inner resources she still had and mount those stairs to…
What?
Another close, tightly occupied room with strangers hungering for what she could not give them.
Answers.
They all wanted answers, and Mrs Renquist wanted answers more than any of them. The pinch-faced widow had every reason to want to know what had happened to her husband, not least to find peace in the knowledge. His body needed to be found to allow the estate to be wound up and her children settled.
Stiffly, Lily mounted the stairs, her eyes adjusting to the semidarkness as she stood upon her dais and stared, unseeingly, across the sea of unrecognisable faces. Some were regulars. A quick glance told her that. Some were admirers. The way they raked their gazes across her made it clear they were not here only for the answers Mrs Renquist desired.
At first, it was the usual preliminaries that Lily had come to expect. The soft whispering, some muted flute playing from some distant chamber to set the scene, a glowing ball.
Then the questions began.
In the past, Lily had been deliberately vague. Yes, she had it on good authority that Mr Renquist had last been seen alive in the vicinity of St John’s Wood. This was near where he worked, so it wasn’t a stretch to imagine it was where he’d died since he hadn’t made it to his home.
And he didn’t frequent taverns or drink with his peers. No, Mr Renquist was a paragon of virtue.
Except that he wasn’t. Lily knew very well that he consorted with prostitutes. Or, at least, that he had a mistress. Celeste.
How did Lily begin to suggest that Mr Renquist was anything other than the upright, moral, loving father and husband his widow claimed? How could she hint at a truth that might in fact shed some light on what had happened to him and which, his widow hoped, would prompt someone with knowledge to speak.
She was tired of spouting untruths, and besides, Mr Montpelier had demanded more. She’d been threatened, and she might be afraid—but she had so much of which to be fearful.
Her husband would soon be coming to the capital. How much longer would she be of use?
She tried to assume her mantle of spiritualist, pretending she could communicate with the dead man. This was what Mrs Moore and Mr Montpelier wanted. A show. Drama. An invested audience.
“Were you threatened before the end? Did you see him? Was it a man? A big man? A cultured man?”
“A man with an accent.”
Yes, that was when someone asked the question. A man with an accent.
Lily didn’t want to open her eyes wide enough to see if she could identify the white-haired, bear-like Russian in the front seat who’d stared at her throughout her earlier performance, and then blocked her way in the middle of the street.
To her relief, she could see no sign of him which gave her the courage to speak.
“A man from a cold country across the sea. The Balkans, perhaps? Or Russia? He was big and bulky.”
She described him in vague terms for she had little more than her own description to go by. Celeste’s lover was like a bear with a big white beard and a fur hat, a heavy coat, and a monocle. Not that bears wore monocles.
My, but she was weary. Fear was making her lightheaded. She couldn’t do this much longer. The anxiety over the implications of Robert’s return was making her light-headed and there was nothing she could do to alleviate her stress. In the old days, she thought the laudanum had saved her life.
Until she realised how wrong she’d been.
Now, she had only her own wits and inner resources on which to depend.
Think1 Think!
Surely if she could continue to titillate the crowds at Mrs Moore’s, Mr Montpelier would continue to put a roof over her head. He’d find something else for her to do while Robert was in the capital and then he’d find another lost soul looking for a spiritualst unless Mr McTavish—
No! These were foolish thoughts. She could depend on no man. She’d learned that to her cost.
She felt herself swaying as the room seemed to close in on her and the crowd tossed questions at her.
“Did he beat you with a club? A heavy bar? Describe the death blow…”
Their words tumbled over each other, booming, yet muted, as they jostled for primacy in her beleaguered brain.
She felt hands on her, people crowding her, her senses revolting as she remained standing, yet within herself she struggled towards the safety of her own dark little world within the deepest recesses of her mind. The same dark world that had been her sanctuary during all the dark years that had preceded her time coming here.
And then she opened her eyes with a start at the acrid smell of Mrs Moore’s vinaigrette, and saw that Mrs Moore and Mr Montpelier were glaring down at her, and she was lying on the ground.
She groped about her to make sense of what was happening, relieved that she was no longer in the parlour but down in the basement, lying it would appear, on a hessian sack upon the hard stone floor.
“Lor’, will yer stop yer screamin’, woman!” Mr Montpelier demanded, and with a shock, Lily closed her mouth.
“What happened?” she asked, glancing towards Mrs Moore to discover she wasn’t glaring but that a smirk was plastered upon her face.
“Oh, my, what a fine performance that was,” she said. “Your keening and crying brought the house down. I almost believed you was being murdered as you stood there.”
“But ’tis time ter stop!” snapped Mr Montpelier. “The people ’ave gone ’ome. There’s no need ter keep up such a racket. We’se yer only audience now.”
Lily struggled to sit upright. She felt drained and ill, and her head ached. “I was screaming?” she asked. She had no recollection of anything much beyond the fear she felt
upon opening her eyes to see the room so full of bright, expectant eyes.
“Screaming like a banshee. The audience loved it. They saw you as their victim as he suffered his final moments.” Mrs Moore’s expression was more kindly than Lily had ever seen it. “How did you manage it? You were not there, after all.” She leaned in further. “Do you know what happened?”
Lily shook her head.
“I know that you know more than you let on.” Her tone was conspiratorial, and Lily felt uneasy, for she really knew nothing and only wished she did.
But Mrs Moore was like a dog with a bone. “That woman, Celeste, knew him. Not that I told Mrs Renquist that, knowing as what kind of woman that Celeste was.” Her nose twitched. “And that you lived with her for a time, Mrs Eustace.”
“I didn’t earn my living as she did.”
Mrs Moore shrugged. “That’s neither here nor there. Fact is, you gave the audience just what they wanted. And now they’ve gone home, satisfied for tonight.”
“But more than eager to return for the finale,” Mr Montpelier said, collecting himself and delivering his verdict with the finesse that had no doubt served him well when he was a gentleman’s valet. “I wonder what you will deliver them, eh, Mrs Eustace?” He raised an eyebrow. “What can you deliver them that will top this evening’s performance. When, after all, you really do know nothing. How will we keep stringing them along?”
Lily furrowed her brow, unsure what he was saying.
He held the lamp up to consider Mrs Moore, who was crooning that as long as Mrs Eustace did perform as she had, then the people would be back every week.
“And when do you suppose the penny will drop, Mrs Moore? When do you suppose they will realise Mrs Eustace is a charlatan?”
Just as you both are, thought Lily.
Mr Montpelier looked troubled. “Next week they will return, looking for satisfaction. But again, they will be fed the smoke and the wails and the mystery. That’s when the dissatisfaction sets in.” He gripped Lily’s arm and gave her a shake. “Do you hear what I’m saying?”
Mrs Moore’s crepey neck wobbled. She leered down at Lily, pulling her to her feet and dusting down her gown as if she were some concerned mother hen when, really, she was preparing Lily for the next plan they had in store for her.
“We’ve ‘ad a little nibble, m’darlin’. Tonight, Mr and Mrs Bunting plan to call on you and discuss how you might speak to their dead little Nell from the spirit world.” Exchanging a look with Mr Montpelier, she went on, “Maybe you can get a nice fat deposit out of them before we have to close down shop when your husband comes to town. Well, at home doesn’t work so well when it’s a boarding house that smells of burned cabbage, so Mr Montpelier did a deal with Madame Chambon.” She sent Lily an expectant smile. “Yes, indeed. For the next two weeks, Madame Chambon has let you a lovely little villa in St John’s Wood where her girls sometimes entertain At Home.” Her cheeks puffed out and she looked enormously pleased with herself as she added, “So now you can do all your entertaining in just as much style, thanks to kind Madame Chambon.”
“For the next two weeks?” Lily clarified.
“That’s right,” said Mr Montpelier. “For as long as the people continue to come and pay good money to see Mrs Eustace.” He cleared his throat. “For as long as you can provide them with what they want to pay good money to see. And,” he added again for good measure, “until your husband comes to town.”
He helped Lily walk shakily to the sofa. “Get yourself in order, Mrs Eustace. You did well tonight.”
But that was the extent of his concern for her. Mr Montpelier saw that she had nearly outlived her usefulness. Lily could read between the lines. Next week, he would install some other bright young thing who would dazzle the audience as a sop to them learning Mrs Eustace had been taken by a seizure, or the killer, or whatever excuse he had for why she was no longer the star attraction at Mrs Moore’s seances.
While Lily would be sold on to Madame Chambon.
Chapter 20
They left her sleeping on a divan in the cold cellar, a blanket thrown over her.
So, that was as much concern they would show the woman who would soon make way for someone new and fresh?
Shivering, Lily crept through the silent household and into the street outside. The snow had melted, and the cobbles were slick with the recent rain.
“Miss, yer look done in!”
It was Grace who opened the door at Madame Chambon’s and led Lily up the corridor, depositing her in a small, unoccupied antechamber having hurried her through a room where several gentlemen lounged, sipping aperitifs; preludes to the sexual congress that had brought them here. One was elderly and looked as if he’d just stepped out of his club. He could have been anyone’s grandfather, so benign did he look.
The other was a young blood, eager and impatient, the way he shifted in his seat.
Lily felt her skin tingle with revulsion as she turned back to Grace who tutted, saying, “I’ll get yer dry boots an’ then yer can tell me wot brings yer ’ere.”
“I would like to see Celeste if I could,” Lily managed. Though what help Celeste would be, she had no idea. Still…
Grace regarded her dubiously. “I don’t know as she wants ter see anyone ternight, miss,” she said softly. “Celeste ain’t too welcomin’, at the best o’ times.”
“And this is not the best of times?” Lily enquired, before pressing her. “Have you noticed any change in her over the past couple of months?”
Grace’s glance flickered as she looked up from lacing Lily into sturdier boots that belonged to one of the young ladies, but which she’d said Lily could return to her before they’d be missed.
“Now as yer mention it, miss, she were nevva one ter say much. But these days she says even less.” She shrugged. “The uvver girls says she ’as tickets on ’erself an’ finks she’s better’n the rest o’ em. Me, though?” She contemplated the matter. “I reckon she’s scared.”
“Scared?”
“Of a gennulman. Sometimes it ’appens that a gennulman ’urts a girl. Madame won’t ’ave any o’ that, but ’tis the kind o’ look Miss Celeste gets in ’er eye when—”
“Grace! What are you doing chattering like a blackbird when I asked you to bring me a cordial more than ten minutes ago?”
It was one of the other women whom Lily recognised though not by name. But as she went on her way with barely a glance at Lily, and as the staircase that led to the bedroom floors was empty, Lily decided to take her chances and see for herself if Celeste would speak to her.
The night had drained her; Mr Montpelier’s words had rattled her, and the cold and damp of the cellar had stripped away what little was left of her resources.
But there was warmth and familiarity at Madame Chambon’s.
Tapping three times upon Celeste’s door, the young woman opened it after a muffled invitation to do so, and then was greeted by Celeste’s clear outrage as the girl rose from her dressing table, her sheer tea gown falling about her shoulders, revealing a bare breast and slender hips.
Clearly, she’d been expecting someone else, and, indeed, she was dressed to entertain a gentleman.
Lily advanced into the room. “What have you not told me about Mr Renquist?” she asked softly, hoping Celeste was frightened enough to admit everything she knew, rather than take objection to Lily’s presence. Lily knew from experience that disturbances were summarily dealt with. A shout, a cry, and the beefy minders who ensured the safety of Madame Chambon’s girls would materialise upon the instant.
“Get out!” Celeste held herself up like a pencil, an arm outstretched and pointing towards the door. “You have no cause to intrude and imperil my ability to earn a living.”
“You do know what happened to Mr Renquist, but you’re not saying anything.” Lily’s mind was churning as she made the accusation. “Or, at least, you have your suspicions, but have kept quiet. Tell me, Celeste.”
The other young w
oman’s look was mutinous; her mouth set in a hard line as she retained her Valkyrie-like stance. “If you don’t leave this instant, I’ll have you forcibly removed.”
“One of your consorts was responsible, wasn’t he? Jealousy? Is that why?” Lily shrugged, puzzling it out on the spot. “You weren’t responsible, Celeste, but you know who was. Or you have your suspicions, don’t you? Otherwise, you’d not have been so evasive when I asked you before. You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
“I’m not afraid of anything. Nor am I guilty of anything.”
“But you know who did it? You know who killed an innocent man. And you continue to consort with the killer.”
Celeste’s fury was so palpable, that despite everything, Lily felt a jolt of satisfaction. She had come here on nothing more than a hunch, and certainly on the spur of the moment, but now she was about to solve the mystery.
And if she solved the mystery, she would be lauded for her discovery. She’d present compelling evidence to the Metropolitan Police, or a magistrate. Or perhaps to Mr Montpelier, and persuade him that a grand reveal with tickets at twice the price would make her too valuable to discard.
“Don’t be afraid, Celeste.” She softened her tone. “Just tell me—”
She stopped, not because Celeste had just picked up a pot of face cream with the clear intention of hurling it at her head, but because the door suddenly opened behind her, knocking her forwards.
She stumbled a few steps, shaken by the malice on Celeste’s face, that was quickly followed by horror.
A sickening horror she shared when she gazed upon the visage of the white-haired gentleman now staring at her, seemingly with incomprehension.
“What a surprise, madam,” he said in thickly accented English as surprise turned to satisfaction. “Our amateur sleuth who communes with the spirits has come to take me to task, has she?” He was blocking the doorway, and so close Lily could smell the brandy on his beard and the fragrant tobacco he smoked. But his bulbous eyes had the greatest impact. For they gleamed at her with a strange satisfaction; and she knew that he meant to do her harm, unless she quit the room before he could wrap his meaty hands about her throat.
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 14