Light Fantastique (16 page)

Marie wanted to box his ears but kept her hands balled in her lap. “You implied enough. And if you were truly concerned for my reputation, you wouldn't stand here in my dressing room without a chaperon. And what are you doing here?
Maman
gives everyone Sundays off.”

Marie thought she heard the low rumble of laughter. Frederic seemed not to notice.

“Mademoiselle, please believe me, I only have your best interests at heart.” The desperate edge to his tone kept her from making the sharp retort that wanted to fly from her tongue.

“Then what do you want? You shouldn't be here.”

“But I had to catch you alone, and I remembered from before how you like to be alone in the theatre when you are learning your parts.”

Marie allowed a sigh to escape her in a huff. Again, she felt pulled in two different directions—away from her past and toward a true career on the stage.

“Please believe me,” Frederic continued, his eyes wide and desperate. “There is something you must know.”

She lowered her voice. “I don't know if I'm truly alone.”

Now he looked at her like he wasn't sure she had full command of her sanity. “What do you mean? You just said…”

“The walls have ears. Come, let's go outside.”

This is insane, going into the alley with him, but he seems serious.

Once outside, she drew her cloak around her and looked at Frederic. “What did you need to tell me?”

“It's about Maestro Bledsoe.”

Marie held up a hand. “I know you dislike him because of his apparent interest in me, but I can assure you, there is no understanding or arrangement between us.”

Especially not after last night and what he implied.

“
Non
, Mademoiselle, if he were merely a rival for your affections, I would not feel the need to warn you thus.”

Remembering Bledsoe's comment and now faced with Frederic's statement made her snap, “Oh? Are my affections worth so little that they can be handed back and forth like a mere trifle?”

Frederic rubbed his temple with the hand that wasn't carrying his violin. “That wasn't what I meant. If I were only competing for your heart, I would have no trouble with him.”

“That's not much better.” Marie crossed her arms and rubbed them. It really was beastly cold outside, and of course the alley concentrated the wind. She only hoped the uncomfortable conditions kept others from listening to them, and she glanced up to where a gap in the snow on the roof showed nothing watched from there. She almost wished something would dump some snow on Frederic to cool
his
ardor.

“Please listen. Your beauty has me so flustered, I'm not speaking with my customary eloquence.”

Marie decided not to interrupt him again, not because of his attempt at charm, but so she could return to the relative warmth of inside. She nodded for him to continue.

“Maestro Bledsoe puts all of us in danger. He has gotten mixed up in a most dangerous situation. He owes money to some ruthless men, and they will stop at nothing to see him pay or punished.”

“Is that all?” The words escaped Marie.
I can't let on that I know Bledsoe's secret. But how does Frederic know?

“All?” He gripped her arm and put his face so close to hers she had to try not to breathe in the steam he exhaled. “Do you not understand—he doesn't care for the rest of you, not your mother or Professor Bailey or Mademoiselle McTavish or the dark doctor or his friend. He is only concerned with himself. With movement at the front, there is no telling what will happen once regular commerce resumes.”

“My mother has the situation well under control.”

“Or does she? Please heed my warning, Mademoiselle. Your mother needs to make him leave once the siege lifts and regular transportation resumes, for as long as he is here in the city, you are in danger.
We
are in danger. I should not even be telling you this.”

Frederic looked over his shoulder, but Marie didn't see anything.

“I will see you tomorrow. Please, just keep your distance from him. And if anyone asks, you did not hear about his disgrace from me.”

“Very well, I didn't.”

Which is the truth since I already knew.

He pecked her on the cheek before she could duck and stalked off too quickly for it to be a regular walk but not fast enough for it to be an undignified run. Marie watched him go, and she couldn't help but frown.

What did he mean? And how does he know the maestro's secret?

Chapter Eighteen

Louvre, 4 December 1870

Iris left early to go to the museum in spite of a dull ache at the base of her skull and feeling like she'd drunk too much wine the night before. Which she hadn't, but she recognized she stretched her talents to their limits. If the Louvre was as deserted as it had been on Saturday, it should be truly empty on Sunday, and hopefully she would be able to concentrate enough to finish sorting the potsherds. When she arrived at the Classics storage gallery, she found Firmin waiting for her, and he wasn't alone.

“I believe you remember Inspector Davidson,” he said. “He was here last summer after Anctil—”

“Mademoiselle.” The inspector tipped his hat with one hand. He held a briefcase in the other.

Firmin cleared his throat and glanced sideways at the inspector. “Have you been involved somehow in another tragedy?”

Bollocks, not now. Not when I need him to think of me as a competent student, not a troublemaker.

“I have not,” Iris said and turned to face Davidson. “What is the nature of your visit, Inspector?”

“I have a few questions for you about the murder two days ago in front of the Théâtre Bohème.”

Firmin raised both his eyebrows. “I thought so.”

“I don't know anything about it,” Iris replied as sweetly as she could around the tension in her jaw from trying not to clench her teeth.

“May we borrow an office?” Davidson asked Firmin. “It's beastly cold in here.”

As previously, something about the way Davidson spoke made Iris wonder if he might be English, not French, even beyond his very Anglo last name.

“Well, we are trying to conserve coal like everyone else. Surely the Prussians will be driven off by this weather.”

“According to the report from the emperor's high command, their supply lines have been harried by your countrymen outside Paris, so they are getting restless. He expects something to happen soon, so be ready.”

“So it will either be riots over coal and food or an invasion,” Iris said. Both men looked at her like they were surprised she entered the conversation.

Davidson spoke first. “Yes, Mademoiselle. You should be careful not to be out after dark and to not walk unescorted.”

Piqued that he hadn't considered her statement, Iris walked ahead of them.

They arrived at Monsieur Firmin's office, and he unlocked it. “I arrived early due to a bit of insomnia and had a fire going earlier. It should still be warm, at least more so than the galleries.”

The sight of the old manuscript on Firmin's desk made Iris's fingers itch to touch it, but she contained her excitement.

“I have some business to attend to in the Renaissance wing,” Firmin told them. “If I have not returned by the time you finish, just close the door behind you.”

Iris almost protested that it wasn't proper to leave her, a young woman, alone with a young man like Inspector Davidson, but if Firmin left, she would have the opportunity to touch-read the manuscript, so she just nodded.

Davidson poked at the smoldering coals. “This is certainly more comfortable than that gallery. How do you work in there all day? By the way, do you mind if we switch to English? As much as I speak French, I find it exhausting before I've had my morning tea, and I wanted to catch you before you started your work.”

“That's fine. How did you know I would be here?”

“I had one of my men follow you yesterday.”

Heat bloomed in Iris's cheeks. She hadn't noticed someone following her, but then, she'd also been caught up in her own thoughts.

I really do need to pay more attention.

“That's why I warned you to be careful,” he added. “I know you're an intelligent and capable young woman, but scholars tend to be more aware of their internal world than what's going on around them.”

Like Edward.
Think of Edward, not how much I enjoy how Inspector Davidson speaks to me like an equal, at least when he's not with Firmin.

He smiled and removed his hat. Without the stern expression, he was actually somewhat good-looking in a wholesome English way.

Iris ignored the throb of homesickness and asked, “You had some questions for me?” She drifted nearer the desk, drawn by the manuscript.

“Please, have a seat. This won't take long, but I'd like you to be comfortable. I noticed there were no chairs in the gallery.”

And he's considerate. Or maybe he's trying to make me let my guard down.

She sat on one of the chairs in front of the desk. He pulled another one over, and she scooted back to ensure their knees wouldn't touch. This close, she could see his eyes were light brown with a touch of gold, and they looked tired. That more than anything made her soften slightly toward him—they were all worn out with the constant threat of the siege from without and civil unrest within the city. Plus he had to try and maintain order amidst all of it.

Still, what is a young man from London doing on the Paris police force, as an inspector of all things?

“Now about what happened at the theatre.” He was all business again. “What do you remember?”

“Nothing, really.” She flexed her hands palm-up. “We were in the townhouse and heard a scream outside. Doctor Radcliffe ran out to assist, Mister O'Connell right behind him. Mademoiselle St. Jean left after they did.”

“And you didn't follow them?”

“No, I was talking with my—” What was Edward? Certainly not her fiancé. “My friend, Professor Bailey.”

“He must be a good friend if you stayed with him rather than run outside to see what happened. Or are screams that commonplace around the Théâtre Bohème?”

“I didn't feel like putting on my cloak and gloves.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Iris recognized how stupid she sounded. Or lazy. Either way, not the way to get the inspector to think well of her so he'd leave her alone.

“So let me see if I understand this,” he said. “A man dies in front of you last summer, and then another one on the sidewalk in front of the theatre where you're essentially living, and you don't seem to be affected by either.”

“You underestimate me, Inspector. Some women don't show their feelings outwardly, at least not as much as others. I was greatly upset by Monsieur Anctil's death. Perhaps I didn't want to relive it, and so I didn't go outside to view the spectacle with the others.”

“That presumes you know what the spectacle was. No, you were avoiding it for some reason. What were you doing in the townhouse with Professor Bailey?”

For a moment, Iris thought he implied she and Edward had taken the opportunity to steal some caresses outside of the watchful eyes of others, but he didn't look like a man having lewd thoughts.

“It's none of your business, Inspector.”

“Perhaps it is.” He placed the suitcase on a chair and drew forth a folder. “I have a copy of your traveling papers issued by the French embassy in England last summer. At first, they seemed unremarkable, but then I noticed the clerk's name who signed them. This is a young man we've been watching closely.”

“Why? And how are you watching him from Paris?”

“You're a smart young woman. Surely you've wondered why an Englishman is on the Paris police force.” His challenging grin almost made him look boyish, and Iris felt herself smile in response.

“Perhaps.”

He laid the folder on the desk away from the ancient manuscript and opened it. “This particular clerk was found to have ties to an American entrepreneur. I believe you've met him, Parnaby Cobb.”

“Yes.” Iris wasn't going to lie to him. “But isn't it normal for businessmen to have ties in travel offices?”

“Not this particular one. You see, this clerk was in charge of approving papers for Frenchmen in England to travel to the United States, not the continent. He acted outside his jurisdiction, which is unusual, but we wouldn't have caught it if we hadn't been watching him.”

Iris felt like Davidson was trying to imply something, but she wasn't getting it. “So why were you watching Cobb?”

“Have you heard of an organization called the Clockwork Guild?”

“That's impossible,” Iris blurted out. “He can't be connected with them. They attacked our airship, Cobb's airship.”

“But did you actually see the fight, or did you head straight to the escape compartment?”

“I didn't witness the battle, but Johann Bledsoe and Marie St. Jean did, at least some of it.” Iris tried to keep her brain from remembering the fall afterward. Her stomach still got a funny floaty feeling when she thought of it.

“I'll get to Mademoiselle St. Jean in a moment. The point is that Parnaby Cobb has suspected ties to the Clockwork Guild, which has been implicated in many tragedies and which may be active in the city undermining the French defense against the Prussians.”

“But why? None of this makes sense. They attacked Cobb's ship to get at Maestro Bledsoe.” Iris bit her lip. She didn't mean to implicate him, but she had the sense of discovering a larger piece of a complicated fresco or painting whereas she'd only seen a corner of it before.

“Do you know why?”

“Something about a gambling debt. He hasn't spoken much of it. What are you really after, Inspector?”

“I need to know what Cobb sent you on a mission for. You must have found it because the Department of Aetherics at Huntington University got a generous donation from him, and you're able to afford the Ecole Archaeologie.”

“Why do you want to know that? I don't see how it's relevant.”

Davidson flipped to a page with two photographs. One was of Monsieur Anctil's body. The other was a large man in a cloak lying face-up on the sidewalk.

“Don't you see how you're in danger, Miss McTavish? I refuse to believe your proximity to these two deaths was coincidental.”

Iris turned from the bulging, staring eyes of the corpses to the manuscript, which enticed her as a more pleasant diversion.

Not now.

“I suspect from what Professor Bailey did that Cobb was looking for an alternate power source to coal. Did you find one?”

Not really.
Iris didn't trust her tongue, so she only shook her head.

A hand on her shoulder made her turn, startled, and she found Davidson's face inches from hers.

“I'm trying to protect you, Miss McTavish. Please believe that. The Guild isn't afraid to kill, and although your friends seem to think them dormant, they're sneakier than you suspect. My advice to you is not to trust anyone with whatever secret you've discovered. But if you do decide to trust me, you know where to find me.” He placed the folder back in the briefcase, pressed a card into her hand, put his hat on, and left.

Iris sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk, Davidson's card barely held between her thumb and forefinger.

Cobb working for or with the Clockwork Guild?
Impossible!
Or was it? He did want them to find an alternate power source to coal, which powered steam machines and factories. The devices that had edged the clockworks into near obscurity. And she knew from studying ancient history and espionage that often secret societies' members didn't all know about each other.

Big hairy ox's bollocks. This means he's not as out of the picture as we thought he was.

* * * * *

Johann waited for Iris to leave before he exited as well. He needed a long walk in the snow followed by some practice time alone in the theatre to deal with the sexual frustration that had tormented him all night. He preferred to call his unrest that rather than guilt over what he'd said and the knowledge that Marie's parting shot—that he needed to change, all of him—had hit home.

But what if he didn't want to? What if he liked how he was? He'd gotten that message enough from his father and brothers, that he wasn't good enough because he didn't value the same things they did.

Consequently, when a rag picker approached Johann and tugged on his coat, he almost snapped at the girl. He caught himself and instead gave her a franc so she could at least get something to eat. She curtsied and handed him a note before melting away into the sparse crowd in front of the theatre.

Why are all these people here?

Johann looked around and saw several people pointing to a plume of smoke to the east.

“What is it?” he asked a man nearby.

“There was an explosion, Monsieur. We are not sure what it means. Perhaps they are fighting?”

“Well, it is a battlefront.”
And Davidson said to be alert for signs of…something.

“
Oui
, and we are wondering should we defend ourselves? The army has stored munitions in the church. Perhaps we should help ourselves to them, for we cannot count on the soldiers to protect our families. You are young and strong—come help us!”

Indeed, several of the men were now arguing and gesturing to the church. Johann was almost relieved to see Inspector Davidson's carriage roll up. The inspector stepped out and held his hands up, immediately taking control of the crowd.

“There is nothing to worry about,” he said. “The French army has made a decisive strike against the Prussians and seem to be pushing them back. Go back to your homes and wait for word on progress.”

Another vehicle, this time a steamcoach, rolled up, and several national guardsmen exited and took positions around the church. The crowd grumbled but dispersed.

“As for you, Maestro, you should probably stay in the theatre or townhouse. Or…” Davidson plucked the note from Johann's fingers. “Or you should perhaps go visit Madame Cinsault, as she requests.”

Johann took the note back. “Hasn't anyone told you it's impolite to read someone else's mail?”