Angels of Music (40 page)

The hall was dim, but infernal – lit only by a few fires. Yelping staff patted at burning patches of their evening attire. With dreadful curses, they helped each other tear wires out of their shoes.

‘Gigi, cover your ears,’ said Elizabeth. ‘This is not language you should learn.’

Kane was limp now, mumbling about ‘roses’ buds’.

There was a great rending sound, as if Plan Thunderbolt were torn in half by the Gods, and the Eye-Ball detached from the ceiling. Wires and chains tore through plaster as the globe crashed fifty feet to the floor. It smashed, throwing broken glass all around.

It was a miracle no one had been underneath it.

Gilberte’s heart clutched, but Riolama wasn’t in the wreckage. Looking up, she saw the bird-girl dangling from a cluster of wires stuck out of the ceiling. With the agility of a born acrobat, she swung from chandelier to chandelier, then found a column she could climb down as if it were a tree-trunk.

Gilberte and Elizabeth abandoned Kane to his ruin, and made a cradle of their hands. Riolama leaped into their grip. They helped her out of the salon, deftly moving through panicking, rioting, complaining crowds.

Heaps of boards were scattered across the floor. Colonel Moran, on his knees, filled his pockets. Most folks were too afraid the building would collapse to bother with scavenging.

They tried to leave the building in an orderly fashion, along with many less cool heads who were fighting and clawing to get out into the relative safety of the street.

Voltaire stood by the main doors, waiting for them, teeth shining like the family silver. Kane must have summoned him with a silent whistle.

‘My good man,’ began Elizabeth, ‘if you would be so kind as to step aside. This poor girl has had a trying evening and is on the point of fainting…’

The giant’s eyes glittered, like his gnashers. He was sceptical.

‘
Move your bloomin’ arse
!’ shouted Elizabeth, in her original voice.

Dishevelled folks streamed past Voltaire, but he stood firm, arms extended.

Now was the time for one of the stratagems they had practised, under the tutelage of the Persian, in the gymnasium beneath the Opéra. It was Gilberte’s call.

‘Hi Lily Hi Lily Hi Lo!’ she trilled.

Riolama flew as if on wires, taking ‘Hi Lily’ and jamming her toughened heels into Voltaire’s metal grin. Elizabeth, the other ‘Hi Lily’, took a discarded parasol and jabbed its point into the giant’s midriff. Gilberte, performing ‘Hi Lo’, fell to the floor like the dying swan, braced herself against marble, and swept stiff legs against his stout ankles.

Voltaire shuddered but didn’t fall.

The Angels recoiled and landed on points, adopting poses of aggression and flirtation. Elizabeth twirled the parasol for distraction. Gilberte opened and closed invisible fans, trying to ignore the pain in her shins. Riolama’s arms rose in a crane stance and she stood on one leg.

Even the fleeing guests knew enough to clear a circle.

‘Hi Lily Hi Lily Hi Lo’ was brute force. For all their delicacy, the trio could fell a tree with it. But Voltaire still stood.

After the Persian had tutored them black and blue, they had suffered under an even more exacting master. To become an Angel of Music, one had to pass muster with Monsieur Erik. Gilberte hadn’t believed her throat could hurt so much, or that such sounds could be torn out of her.

Now, they would put their lessons into practice.

Elizabeth began to tap out a tempo with her parasol.

Gilberte found a discarded croupier’s scoop. Riolama, alarmingly, picked up a bloody sword.

They tapped in synchronised time. Voltaire’s eyes swivelled between them.

The repertoire for three female voices was limited. ‘Three Little Maids From School’ was too trivial, though perhaps effective in a back-alley brawl. Bizet’s ‘Les Tringles des Sistres Tintaient’ was too coarse, and they all thought Carmen a stupid slut. So, it must be Mendelssohn. ‘Lift Thine Eyes To The Mountains’. The ‘Angels’ Trio’ from
Elijah
.

Elizabeth, the most naturally skilled, took the lead. Gilberte had counterpoint, and Riolama – whose high notes turned to bird screeches – fluttered around. Song came from their hearts and lungs. Sound rolled from their larynxes in waves. If Voltaire could hear a dog-whistle, this would hurt.

All around, folks were struck by the beauty, then pricked by the pain. Crystal shattered, and another chandelier fell.

They focused the song on the giant in their way.

Blood trickled from his ears, his nose, his eyes. But he was transfixed.

Riolama took the lead from Elizabeth, and improvised – cockatoo sounds, bird-calls from her jungles. Voltaire felt it in his steel teeth, and clutched his mouth as the sharpened false choppers vibrated.

Gilberte became the dominant voice, and ended the song.

The giant fell to his knees, eyes and mouth red.

Without taking a bow, the trio slipped round him into the street.

A few stunned patrons tried to applaud, then thought better of lingering. More chandeliers would fall tonight.

In song, the Angels of Music had conquered.

Europa-Xanadu was in ruins. A mob was tearing down the façades of every Burgher Kane in sight. Fellows with sledge-hammers smashed gaming machines. Liberated cattle charged down the street, trailing bruised cowboys by their lassos. A circle of small boys filled up a lost ten-gallon hat with piddle. The bandstand was seized. An impromptu barber-shop quartet sang ‘Go Home, Yankees’ to the tune of ‘Good Night, Ladies’.

The European War of the Future was finished before it was begun. The false plans would not be drawn up and passed on, the Terrorists’ air-destroyer would not strike, the armies would not march. The Most High Order of Xanadu was set against itself. Some of the most dangerous, vindictive and resourceful people in the world believed Charles Foster Kane had set out to fleece them. The magnate would be lucky to get out of France with his skin. He would have to fortify his Florida fastness against the creatures sure to be set against him by those who felt he owed debts no gold mine could service.

The Persian was waiting with a black motor-carriage and chauffeur.

The three women got into the vehicle. The Persian had champagne on ice for Gilberte and Elizabeth, and chocolate-covered insects for Riolama – her favourite delicacy.

Envelopes were handed to them. In Gilberte’s was a notice of a bank account opened in her name in Switzerland, and a generous initial deposit.

‘Against a rainy day,’ Elizabeth explained.

Their commission concluded, expression drained from the Englishwoman’s face – as if she were Galatea turned back into a statue, waiting for someone to vivify her again.

Then, briefly, she was animated as she gasped, ‘Freddy!’

Mr Eynsford Hill was tied to a lamppost. Children painted as wild Indians danced around this totem, giving out war-whoops.

‘I suppose he’ll be all right,’ Elizabeth said as they drove by. ‘Fickle fortune frequently favours the foolish.’

Riolama happily crunched her chocolate bugs.

Elizabeth needed a strong teacher of music and diction to set her course, while Riolama was happy in an eternal present surrounded by winged friends. Gilberte recognised them both as her sisters.

They took the road from Royale-les-Eaux, leaving Kane’s colossal schemes behind in irreparable shambles. Gilberte knew they would be in Paris by sunrise, to sleep away the day and emerge fresh the next evening – ready again to take flight.

T
WO DAYS LATER
, a telegram was delivered to Box Five. A simple acknowledgement of success, and the continued gratitude of his country. And, though they knew it not, the other Great Powers of Europe.

There would be no war this year.

More importantly, a dire threat was lifted. A certain American tycoon was no longer in any position to make good on his plan to buy the Paris Opéra outright and ship the building stone by stone to Chicago.

Beneath his mask, Erik really smiled.

‘Can the heart of Paris die like this in one night? It did seem dead. I have never seen a more complete image of death than was presented on that Friday night by this once impossibly crowded station… Would whole pieces of Paris collapse? Would all Paris crumble in bit by bit? Perhaps the whole of Paris really was doomed; perhaps it really was to be the end of Paris, which means the end of the world for Parisians.’

Laurence Jerrold, ‘Paris After the Flood’,
Contemporary
Review
(1910)

M
ORNING SNOW TURNED
to afternoon rain. Père Lachaise Cemetery was soaked. Streams ran between graves. Kate Reed kept to the paths and still found herself wading through gritty mud. Petals washed from wreaths stuck to her boots. She had to keep taking off and wiping her spectacles.

The weather in France was making headlines around the world. When she told her English friends where she was going, they advised she wrap up warm and carry an umbrella. To them, a heavy downpour meant damp basements, trickles into the servants’ quarters and mould behind the Welsh dresser. Not the rising of the Seine and the fall of civilisation.

London rain was sly and malicious. A drumming on church slates during a long, dull sermon. You nodded off in wet clothes and caught a chill. Nothing a mustard bath wouldn’t see to. Paris rain was outright evil. It wanted to murder you.

Only Charles Beauregard warned her of the extent of the chaos in Paris. He sat on the Ruling Cabal of the Diogenes Club and made it his business to know how things really stood, especially when they were worse than anyone could imagine.

Monumental stone soldiers – a Zouave, a grenadier, a skirmisher and an artilleryman – decorated the support columns of Pont de l’Alma. Parisians measured floods by the Zouave. When water ran over his boots, embankment paths were out of bounds. Time to shift the wine from cellar to attic. When it reached his waist, the river became unnavigable. Time to get to work on an ark.

The Zouave was now up to his neck.

As if that were not sufficiently ominous, this was the week of the daylight comet. Some called the baleful shooting star Wormwood. Halley’s Comet, more famous but less bright, would soon tear through the sky. At this rate, Kate expected alarums and excursions… pestilence and plague… wars and rumours of war.

The fourth horseman was already here.

At her age, every death seemed a sign of the end of all things.

The international telegram read ‘The Persian is dead – Erik’.

At first, she thought the most terrifying aspect of the sad news was that the Director of the Opera Ghost Agency had walked into a post office himself. Obviously, the Persian could no longer perform such ordinary, above-the-streets tasks for him. Then she realised he would have had an Angel send notices to the alumnae.

Kate felt obliged to pay respects in person. Charles knew better than to argue against her trip. She even declined his offer to accompany her. When she needed a useful position outside Great Britain, the Diogenes Club recommended her to the Opera Ghost Agency – but Paris was her own adventure and she didn’t need anyone to hold doors open or protect her from
Les Apaches
.

She could not attend the funeral. In accordance with his religion, the Persian was buried within a day of his death. She imagined Erik playing a violin in the rain while three women she didn’t know dropped flowers on a wrapped body, laid on its side, head towards Mecca.

A week on, Angels gathered at the grave. With umbrellas.

‘If you came to find out his real name, you’ll be disappointed,’ said an American with a red-eyed raven pinned to her black hat. ‘No headstone.’

Mohammedans frowned on ostentatious funerary displays. Amid elaborate tombs and memorials, the Moslem section of Père Lachaise was austere.

The women had brought simple wreaths or posies.

She added her own tribute. Purple carnations.

‘Irene Adler,’ said the woman with the bird-hat. ‘Last of the first…’

‘Kate Reed,’ she replied. ‘Somewhere in the middle.’

They shook gloved hands.

Two other women were present. Kate got the impression Irene had taken charge. The American had one of those voices which could fill an auditorium with song but – if let loose – empty it of an audience. Sympathetic critics used to call her ‘forceful’. The less rapt said ‘strident’.

‘This is Mrs Elizabeth Eynsford Hill,’ said Irene, indicating a slim English lady.

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,’ said the woman. She spoke clearly, almost singing. Her bell-like vowels would appeal to Erik, a connoisseur of the human voice, more than Irene’s ‘Noo Joisey’.

‘I am Unorna,’ said the strawberry-blonde with mismatched eyes.

‘The Witch of Prague,’ said Irene.

‘Magician,’ corrected Kate, politely. ‘I’ve heard of you.’

The Secret Files of the Diogenes Club had a dossier on Unorna. Her standing in European occult circles was high. On the eve of the new century, she reputedly bested Margaret Trelawny, the Witch Queen of Kensington, in a duel of magic. Aleister Crowley, by a long chalk the club’s least reliable informant, alleged that after three nights of bargaining, the demon Bifrons – an Earl of Hell – signed a contract with Unorna only to find he had sold his soul to
her
… whereupon she made a gift of it to the Pope, to dispose of as he saw fit. Unorna had a reputation as exorcist, visionary, healer and seeress. If the Hapsburgs listened to her the way the Romanoffs listened to Rasputin, the imperial family might have been spared one suicide pact, several assassinations and an infestation of elemental spirits in the imperial villa at Bad Ischl. Early in her career, Unorna had been an Angel of Music.

‘Prague is in Bohemia,’ said Irene. ‘Not my favourite vacation spot.’

The files ran to
several
dossiers on Irene Adler, which the Ruling Cabal restricted to serious researchers because otherwise some valued members – all men – would have had them out of the cabinets all the time to look at the pictures. Irene was notorious on all the continents except Antarctica, which she’d not visited yet. If penguins could be scandalised, she would be up for the job.