Rancor handed her a flute.
Now’s my chance. “Rancor, how are you paying for all this?”
“Never ask the cost of things, my dear. It’s not ladylike.”
“But—”
He raised his voice, drowning her out. “I took the liberty of ordering because I know what you want.”
“Whatever.” Charity wasn’t really in the mood to press, mainly because she was ravenous.
He whipped a silver dome off, revealing a platter of bright green asparagus napped with a cream sauce. He broke off a chunk of baguette and handed it to her. She dipped it in the sauce. Her eyes opened wide. “Why, it’s fish!”
“Unusual combination of flavors, isn’t it? It’s made with haddock, garnished with garlic and razor clams. A specialty of the chef.”
She polished it off and looked at the other covered dishes. “Next?”
“Ah—you’ll love this one. I could have gone with something really mundane like steak au poivre—except that the chef refused to cook it, so I sprang for pigeonneaux fermier.”
On the plate were two tiny fowl, their legs sticking straight up, little paper frills serving as booties. “Really, Rancor—titmice?”
“They’re nothing of the sort, you ignorant git. They’re squabs in a peppermint sauce with the earliest petits pois. If you’re squeamish, I’ll gladly eat your portion.”
She gathered the plate to herself. “Not on your life.”
He watched her eat, a Mona Lisa smile on his face. When she’d finished, he drew a plate of cheese with cherries and grapes from the lower shelf. “I stole the grapes from the pool maidens.”
A few minutes later, Charity sat back, holding her stomach. “I can’t believe I ate that much.” During the meal, the sun had gone down and hundreds of windows in the beautiful medieval buildings began to glow. She remembered that Paris was called the City of Lights. So true. A band of young men sauntered down the street below singing “La Marseillaise” in drunken harmony. A Chopin prelude wafted from the restaurant across the way. Charity’s eyes began to close.
The whisper came gently on little notes of mirth. “What? Don’t you want to hear about my grand adventure?”
Her response was a slight snore. Rancor waved a hand under her nose. “Damn. Jet lag. I’ll have to save the narrative for tomorrow.” He lifted Charity out of the chair and carried her to the bed. She woke up from her doze long enough to put her arms around him.
“Shh. Sleep. You’ll need your strength to hear my story.”
Charity murmured sleepily, “Does it involve a beautiful woman?”
“Several. I’ve been a busy boy.”
Chapter Nine
The Ghost and the Showgirl
“I am not ordering another room service meal. Get up.”
Charity opened her eyes to find Rancor’s face inches from hers. She leapt up, landing him a thump on the chin. “Ouch.”
He rubbed it. “Where do you get off saying ‘ouch’? I’m the one with the massive trauma. What’s your head made of? Titanium?”
Charity looked around. “I’m in your room. Why aren’t I in mine?”
“Because you fell asleep at the table, and in an stalwart act of gallantry, I carried you the five feet to the closest couch. You have been zonked out for twelve hours.”
“Ah.” She felt her teeth. “I need a wash and brush up. Where’s my room key?”
“You left it at the pool last night, but Manolo the bellhop dropped it off earlier.”
“Manolo? Oh, you mean Jean-Pierre. How did he know I was here?”
“I told him.”
Charity blushed. “Oh dear.”
He patted her head. “This is France, love. No one batted an eye.” He handed her a key. “However, you really would improve with the vigorous application of both a toothbrush and a hairbrush. I’ll wait for you in the restaurant.”
When she arrived, he put down his newspaper and poured her a cup of coffee from a silver pot. She noticed the name of the paper—Le Figaro—and the headline: “Americaine Trouvée Morte en Londres.” She gulped. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“That an American woman was found dead in London? Yes.”
“It’s not…it’s not…”
“Isabella? No, more’s the pity. She is, I’m afraid, still at large.”
“You didn’t meet her at the Victoria and Albert Museum?”
“I wasn’t supposed to meet her. I was supposed to catch her. She slipped away.”
“Perhaps you need to hire a professional.”
“Perhaps. Meanwhile, I met another lady.”
“Rancor!”
“I can’t help it. They are drawn to me like mosquitoes to bare skin.”
“Nice metaphor.”
“I try to mix them up a bit.”
Charity buttered a croissant and slathered it with currant jelly. “Tell me.”
“Well, you’ll find this amusing. I was standing like a little lost lamb in front of that great hideous portrait of Victoria when a woman in a wheelchair ran into me.”
“Will you sue?”
“I might have, except she looked so apologetic…also rich.”
“How did you know that?”
“She was encrusted with diamonds. And her purse bulged.”
“It could have been a gun.”
“Luckily, I didn’t think of that. I accepted her apology with extravagant grace and agreed to accompany her to lunch.”
“You’re always so amiable when you’re sponging off people.” She thrummed her fingers on the table. “You do seem to attract women in any position—sitting or standing.”
“It’s a gift.” He sipped his coffee. The waiter nipped over with another pot and set it down along with a second basket of croissants. Charity smiled winningly at him. He returned the smile and backed away, bowing. Rancor glared at her. “Don’t even try to compete with me.” He eyed her. “Anyway, we went to this delightful Indian place. I do think the best curries in the world are found in England.”
“Not India?”
“No—the Indians insist on cooking everything in slabs of ghee. Since you probably have no idea what ghee is, I’ll elucidate. Imagine a yellow version of the stuff they might extract from the La Brea tar pits.”
I am not going to admit that the only words I recognized in his speech were the verbs. Filing the questions away to Google at leisure, Charity nodded. “All right, go on.”
“Well, her name was…hang on a sec”—he pulled out a notebook—“Beatrice da Lima e Silva Abernethy. She lives at number fifty, Berkeley Square. Alone.”
“And you asked about a full-time job as a gigolo?”
“The subject didn’t come up. She did tell me her family history, however. You’ll never guess who she’s descended from.”
“Probably not.”
“Then I’ll tell you. Mistinguett. The very lady who lived in your room.”
“The music hall star?”
“Yes. Beatrice told me all about her. Did you know that Fanny Brice stole her greatest hit—‘Mon Homme’? You may remember it as ‘My Man.’ ” He opened his mouth wide and warbled a few notes from the vaudeville song.
Charity leaned forward and gently pinched his lips together. “Coincidence?”
“There’s more.”
“Okay.”
“Mistinguett—born Jeanne Bourgeois…now, isn’t that a bit of irony? Where was I? Oh. She never married but had a son by this Argentine diplomat, a Señor da Silva. The diplomat took the child to America, and Mistinguett continued to live the life you would expect, with many admirers among the aristocracy and other celebrities.”
“Oscar Wilde?”
He looked down his nose at her. “You are aware of how the great man came to die penniless in Paris instead of London?”
She held a hand to her mouth. “Oh! I’d forgotten. He was—”
“Considered a pervert for the crime of loving the comely Lord Alfred Douglas and run out of Eng
land, yes. Oscar was therefore emphatically not a paramour of the delectable Mistinguett, but the Prince of Wales, at least one of the myriad White Russian counts infesting Paris, and the Argentine diplomat were. In fact, there were rumors that John Ringling visited her on several occasions.”
“Ringling!”
“Yes, you know he and Mable, and later his second wife Hedda—”
“The sister of Calvin Hagen?”
“Right. They traveled all over Europe picking up lesser known works of art. Naturally, they spent time in Paris and made the rounds of the theaters, low and high.”
“Wait a minute.” Charity put down her napkin. “You said Señor da Silva took his son to the US. So where does Beatrice fit in?”
“Ah. The son—name of Tomás I believe—bore two children…or rather his wife did. Leopold and my new bestie, Beatrice.”
“This Beatrice confided quite a bit in you.”
He drew a long face. “She’s lonely, poor dear. I made the best of it by ordering champagne.”
“Good call.”
“Yes, indeed, but I had an ulterior motive. I shall reiterate in case you weren’t listening—shocking as that would be, although you do seem prone to woolgathering—Beatrice happens to live at 50 Berkeley Square.”
“As in, ‘A nightingale sang’ there?”
“The very place. Situated in the borough of Westminster, it has for centuries been one of the toniest parts of London.”
“So you thought you’d wangle an invitation?”
“Yes, but not for the reason you think. Number fifty is also infamous. To be precise, it is haunted. Heavily.”
Charity paused, croissant halfway to her mouth. “Really? Cool!”
“Indeed. Built sometime before 1770, it’s been the scene of several deaths and many ghostly sightings. Paranormal activity centers in the attic, whence apparently—”
“Ha ha.”
“What? Oh. Anyway, several spectral forms have been seen there, including a child, a young woman, and a man foaming at the mouth.”
“And this old lady lives there? Why?”
“Well, for one thing, the rent is cheap.”
“I’ll bet.”
“And for another, she heard a rumor that Mistinguett had resided there for a short period around 1934 and may have left some belongings there.”
“Did she?”
“Live there? Not exactly. It turns out that a friend of the singer had just bought the house, and one day Mistinguett paid her a call. According to the friend’s diary—”
“And you know this how?”
“Honestly, keep up, will you? Beatrice found the diary when she moved in.”
“I see. What did it say?”
The waiter dropped the bill in front of Rancor. He picked up the pen. “How do you spell Mistinguett?”
“O-S-C-A-R-W-I-L-D-E.”
“Whatever. They’ll figure it out.” He wrote something and handed it back. “Mistinguett had heard the stories that eddied around the house, and she and her friend resolved to explore the attic room.”
“Ooh. Did they see anything?”
“Just the police notice prohibiting entry ‘Due to Unexplained and Dangerous Phenomena.’ ”
“But they went in anyway.”
“Naturally.”
“What did they find?”
“Among other things, a trunk full of theatrical costumes. Mistinguett couldn’t resist taking it.”
“I see.”
“Well, the guilt must have gotten to her—”
“Or one of the ghosts appeared to her, begging for the return of his property?”
“Possibly. Who’s telling the story anyhow?”
“You are.” Charity subsided.
“Okay. So, on her death bed, Mistinguett directed that the trunk be returned to Berkeley Square. Her wishes were carried out. When Beatrice married John Abernethy and moved to London from Boston, she went to see the house.”
“Wait a minute. How did she know about the house?”
“How do I know? I only just met the lady. I’m merely relating what she told me.”
“Oh.”
“She spoke to the neighbors, who claimed it was still haunted and that they regularly heard screams and shouts coming from the top floor. When she couldn’t get in—”
“Why not?”
“Shh. Because the door was locked, and a notice tacked on it said, ‘Keep Out.’ ” He shot her a wary glance, and she closed her mouth. “But—but—she ran the owners to earth and offered to rent the place. She’s been there ever since. I believe she eventually bought it.”
“What happened to her husband?”
“Considering how warmly she welcomed me into her coterie, I imagine he’s no longer an obstacle to her pursuit of pleasure.”
Charity put down her cup. “Has she seen any ghosts?”
“Nary a one. I begin to wonder if it’s all a bad joke.”
“Still, it’s worth a trip. I propose we go see this haunted house.”
“That’s my girl.”
“We’ll have to figure out a way to connect it to our American ghosts, though.”
“Not a problem,” he said happily. “The author has a lot of clout with the publisher. Arlo gave me carte blanche.”
“And an expense account?”
“How else could I wine and dine you this way?”
“You aren’t.”
He made a show of checking his pockets and rose. “You’d better ask the concierge about London flights. I’ll see you later.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to see a man about a dog.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“Believe me, if I told you the truth you’d hold it against me.”
Charity was inclined to agree.
****
“Why are we still circling Orly?”
“Dunno. Hey look, we’re landing again.”
A tinny voice came over the loudspeaker. “Bonjour, mesdames et messieurs. We will be returning to the ground momentarily. The captain has been informed that someone forgot to close a door.” The stewardess blushed furiously.
Rancor laughed. “They don’t call it ‘Air Chance’ for nothing.”
Charity, hands gripping the armrests and eyes tightly closed, didn’t respond.
Once safely landed at Heathrow, Rancor called Mrs. Abernethy and asked if they could drop by. “I’m bringing a friend—my collaborator in the ghost story anthology I told you about.”
Beatrice would be delighted to see them.
They checked into the Cavendish in a downpour and arrived on the doorstep of 50 Berkeley Square at a very civilized four o’clock just as a pale sun peeped through the clouds. Charity reflected that Paris seemed much cheerier than London.
Rancor saw her look up at the sky. “London can be pretty bleak in January. Too bad we missed Christmas here—it’s quite jolly.”
A woman in a maid’s uniform answered the door. “Mrs. Abernethy is expecting you.” She led them into a bright parlor filled with chintz-covered armchairs and tables piled high with books.
An old lady raised herself slightly from her chair. “Welcome, Rancor. You’re just in time for tea. Please forgive my manners—I regret that I am no longer able to stand for any length of time.”
Rancor bowed. “You are most kind to let us come.” He took Charity’s arm. “May I present my friend, Charity Snow?”
Charity marveled at Rancor’s sudden mastery of formalities. Hidden depths.
Beatrice gave her a searching look. “How do you do, my dear? Do sit down. No, over there, on the sofa, next to Rancor. There.” Once they were settled, she said, “Shall I ring Irma for the tea?”
“Yes, please.”
While they waited, Charity checked out the pictures—mostly prints of Mistinguett in various skimpy costumes, plus posters for her revues at Le Casino de Paris and the Moulin Rouge. One photograph on the grand piano showed her holding a baby, a ma
n with brilliantined black hair and a flowing moustache standing beside her. Another had her surrounded by young men. Charity went over to it. “That one looks a lot like Maurice Chevalier.”
“You have good eyes, my dear. It most certainly is the great crooner. He was my grandmother’s lover for many years.” She touched the frame. “Such a nice man. I remember him. He gave me candy once when my father brought us to visit.”
The maid entered carrying a tray laden with a Dresden tea set and a three-tiered plate piled with sweets and cut sandwiches.
“Will you pour, my dear?”
Charity frantically went over past episodes of Upstairs Downstairs in her mind. Ah yes. With a hand that shook only slightly, she filled a cup from the teapot. The words came out of some forgotten recess of her mind. “One lump or two?” A snuffle sounded from Rancor’s direction. She kept her eyes fixed on Mrs. Abernethy.
The old lady took it all in stride. “Two lumps, dear, and a bit of cream. Thank you. Now, if you’ll pass the fairy cakes my way, I’ll be happy as a clam at high water.”
Charity poured two more cups. Rancor checked out the plate and cried eagerly, “Cucumber sandwiches! Weren’t they Algernon’s favorite in The Importance of Being Ernest?”
“Why, aren’t you clever, Rancor. Yes, indeed. It’s in the opening scene.” Beatrice laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “Mr. Wilde wrote such cunning little plays, don’t you agree? I often wonder if he knew my grandmother.”
“I’m sure he did.”
An impish smile flitted across her lips. “She perhaps felt it imprudent to bring his name up in gentle company.” She sipped daintily. “You mentioned that you have taken the Oscar Wilde suite at the Hôtel Paris I believe.”
“I did. He’s been on my mind lately.”
She turned to Charity. “And where, may I ask, are you staying?”
Charity gulped. “I…I…”
Rancor leaned in. “She means in Paris.” He smiled at Beatrice. “That’s one reason we’re here. They’ve put her in the Mistinguett room.”
The Pit and the Passion Page 13