The Rose and the Ghost, page 7
He glances at me. “Never?”
“My job was to investigate the London area.” I wonder why that surprises him. “There was no need to leave.”
Steel gives up on the waiter, turning to me. “And you never considered what else you might do, afterwards? What about a holiday? Or a honeymoon?”
I snort before I can stop myself. “I likely would have been dead before the question of marriage ever occurred to me.” Enough agents died in the line of duty that we learned not to dream too fiercely. Now, though, my future yawns open.
My skills might be more suited to chasing demons than keeping house, but they are, nonetheless, skills. Smaller police stations might take women as clerks, or secretaries. Or I could find a suitable post at a bank or an office to build references. Later, perhaps, with enough experience behind me, I could become a real private investigator.
The idea is so new and so fragile that I turn away from it in case the attention inhibits its growth.
From our seat, I can glimpse the stone wall that keeps passersby from plunging into the Seine. I watch two women walk beside it leading a poodle and only as they vanish behind the corner of a building do I notice Steel’s silence. When I glance over, I find him staring at the table, a faint furrow between his brows.
“What?” I ask and am interrupted by the reluctant appearance of the waiter.
“Coffee?” he asks, in flat English, and starts when I respond in French. After a quick exchange, he hastens away to deliver our tea and croissants.
“You thought you’d die?” asks Steel, once the man’s out of earshot.
I tuck my heels together under my seat. “Well, yes.” I wait for him to follow up with another question, but the pause drags on, and I start to feel defensive, uncomfortable. “You have to admit, the life expectancy for agents isn’t long. Even Turner…” I trail off. Out of the agents I’d known, only Jacob’s mentor had married and he’d kept his wife a secret from most of us. The other agents had dedicated themselves to the Agency. Or to their demons.
“That’s a pretty grim outlook.”
“Everyone dies. It doesn’t scare me.”
“It scares me,” he mutters.
“I suppose it will be a while before you have to worry about dying. Of old age, I mean.”
He nods. “Our ageing usually starts to slow once we reach maturity.”
“How old are you?” I ask, marvelling that we’re having a conversation that’s not about a murder, for once.
Steel throws me a wry look. “How old do you think I am?”
“Judging by your normal behaviour? Twelve.”
“I’m insulted,” he teases. “I thought you’d say at least fifteen.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
His laugh is a huff of breath that softens the hard edges of his face. The waiter chooses that moment to swoop in with black tea and two rather stale croissants. Steel dunks the corner of his straight into his cup, making me look at him, askance. He grins, crunching down on it and scattering pastry flakes everywhere. I tear off a piece of mine and chase the bite with a mouthful of tea so hot it burns the roof of my mouth.
“I’m twenty-four,” he says, brushing crumbs from the corners of his lips. “Only just started slowing. So, you don’t have to worry; I’m not some decrepit old vampire a few years from dust.”
Far from it, he’s two years older than me. “Thank goodness for that.” Across the pavement, a pigeon hops towards us, cocking its head at the sight of the pastry crumbs. “How long until you reach dusting age?”
“A hundred years or so. Possibly more.” He watches the bird, too, something apprehensive in his expression.
“A long time,” I say, gently. Long enough to watch the people you love die.
He directs a wry smile at the pigeon. “That’s if I make it that long.”
“Do you want to?” The question escapes before I can hold it back, my tongue lured into complacency by our easy conversation. “I’m sorry, that was—I shouldn’t have asked.”
Steel takes a long moment to reply. “I…don’t know,” he says, holding his cup by the rim, the steam from the tea warming his palm. “I suppose I haven’t thought that far ahead. Besides,” he adds, “given what happened to my family, the likelihood is that I won’t need to think about it.”
It’s an obvious evasion, but I take it. “Florence,” I nudge. “What was it like, the House? A real house, I assume?”
“A fucking mansion.” The curse catches me by surprise and I dart a glance around us, but the street is empty save for us and the waiter. “It had a vault. That’s where they kept my mother’s necklace. My cousin wanted—” He cuts himself off, then drowns the sentence in the rest of his tea. “That’s all that Houses are,” he continues, his mouth twisting. “A collection of the richest and the most powerful of us.”
“It must have been hard, losing your mother like that.” I can’t imagine the horror it must have caused.
Steel sets his empty cup on the table, spins it until it wobbles. “The sommelier was right,” he says, deflecting my comment. “The person who killed my family is here, committing more murders.”
Though all I want to do is keep talking about things that aren’t murders, I let the desire slip away. We’re not here for a fantasy. “Or people,” I say. “We can’t discount the possibility that we might be looking for more than one suspect.”
“Whoever they are, they have a taste for the wealthy as well as the innocent.” He spins the cup so hard it topples off the table and smashes on the pavement. The waiter swoops in with a brush to collect the shards, pinning us with a glare as he flounces off.
“We’ve delayed long enough,” Steel says, standing. “Let’s go.”
I hurry to pile enough francs on the table for our meal and follow Steel, whose long legs carry him towards the Seine at a brisk pace. The river curves like an old grey ribbon under delicate bridges. Despite the rancid smell and the noise, I think it pretty.
Apprentice E. Wilson
Eve walks slowly, toe first, and the faint drumming of rain on the stained windows helps muffle her footsteps. The priest’s voice drones, causing the Latin words to bounce off the vast, gold-inlaid ceiling and echo among the colossal stone columns. Heads bob to each line of the prayer and she recognises Khurana’s for its stillness. Isis sits in one of the empty rows at the back, a sentry.
Diamond shaped tiles lead her along the rows of chairs until she can slip in beside the agent. Khurana has both hands propped on her cane and her long braid is pinned up under a black straw hat draped with lace. Black is the theme of her outfit and Eve realises her own dove grey is too pale for this stage of mourning. Not that she cares to give Rayne that compliment.
As she takes a seat, the robed priest leads the congregation in the Lord’s Prayer and she takes advantage of the noise. “What happened?” she whispers. “Truly.”
“Truly?” Khurana replies, “Locke killed agent Rayne.”
Eve reels back in shock. “How? Why?”
“Rayne was the Ripper. His demon must have been helping him—although where Cassius disappeared to after that, I could not tell you.”
Amen ripples through the arched chamber, leaving a moment of silence undercut by the pouring rain. Eve waits, curling her fingers into her palms, until the priest ascends the wooden pulpit and begins his sermon.
“But Monaghan thinks Hazel was the Ripper.” A woman a few rows ahead pivots to glare at her. Eve smothers the urge to curl her lip and glare back, and just ducks her head meekly. “Why?” she asks, lowering her voice.
Khurana hesitates and the unease that has taken root in Eve’s stomach blossoms into nauseating fear.
“You haven’t told him.”
“It is…complicated.”
“It doesn’t sound complicated to me.”
The agent cuts her a look, but Eve meets her glare. In the grey light filtering through the windows, Khurana’s face is shadowed, her expression unclear. “We must be cautious,” she says. “Locke ran. We must discover why.”
Voices rise in another prayer and Eve pushes against the back of her chair, crossing her arms and hollowing her chest. The prayer grates and even the lines of the Mul Mantra that Khurana utters under her breath can’t distract her. Life at the Agency, facing and fighting demons every day, has a tendency to grind faith down to the barest slivers of its bones. Khurana has somehow managed to keep hers intact.
Eve doesn’t know when her own faith died, if it had ever lived. A god wouldn’t have let her father leave her mother pregnant and alone without even the courtesy of his name to keep her warm. A god wouldn’t let so many suffer and die if he had the power to stop it. There are no gods in England, only monsters.
Tapping her foot on the stone, she thinks about what Khurana has said. And what she hasn’t said. “He’s covering for Rayne,” she realises and doesn’t even lower her voice when the woman in front glares at her. “You would have told him if you thought it would help.”
Khurana sighs. “Monaghan has been promoted to Shadow Commissioner.”
The Commissioner controls every police force in London and can draw upon the entire country at a moment’s notice. If Monaghan is Shadow Commissioner, then he can do all of that while standing in the dark, standing behind the man who’d take the blame should something go wrong. All the power to control England with nothing to stand in his way.
“Hazel wouldn’t have run without a good reason.” Could she have feared that Monaghan would prosecute her for Rayne’s death? But if Rayne was the Ripper, no court in England would commit her, if it even got that far. Not to mention— “I still don’t understand how she did it. Steel shouldn’t have been able to leave her.”
“That is something I can explain.” For the first time, Khurana looks uncomfortable. “Later. First, find out what else Rayne was up to. We need proof that he was the murderer to have any hope of calling off this search. And Eve,” she adds, “we must be cautious. Understand?”
Eve nods and doesn’t wait for the service to finish. Ignoring the dirty looks thrown in her direction, she files out of the row and strides down the aisle, the click of her boots a reassuring rhythm under the sound of raindrops on glass.
CHAPTER SIX
A broad avenue trimmed with wrought-iron lampposts carries us to the Palais Garnier. Columns decorate the building’s face and twin angelic figures flank either side. The statues are gilded and, as we approach, the gold shimmers in the daylight as if they’re alive. Its roof is domed and fronted with a triangular stone pediment. A third angel crouches at its peak, not that it needs the decoration.
“That’s impressive,” I say aloud.
The entrance is a long forum with a shining marble floor. I make my way towards a line of ticket booths at the side. Most of the booths are closed, except one, which is manned by a young man in a red jacket and cap. He peers at us through a golden filigree gate.
“Are you here to buy tickets, mademoiselle?” he asks, drumming his fingers on the counter.
“No, thank you,” I reply. “We’re here to ask you a few questions.”
At my side, Steel folds his arms, glowering like some kind of thug-for-hire.
“Questions?” the man asks, frowning. “You don’t want tickets?”
“No. Who is in charge here?”
His eyes flutter as if my words had momentarily blinded him. “I—The managers, mademoiselle. We will be reopening in three days, if you would like to purchase tickets in advance?” he adds, hopefully.
“Monsieur, I am not interested in—” I pause. “Reopening? What do you mean? There’s no opera, tonight?”
“N-no, mademoiselle. Tonight’s performance has been cancelled.”
“Why?”
The man shrinks behind the gate. “I—Forgive me, mademoiselle, I am not—You will need to speak to the managers, mademoiselle.”
“Yes, fine. Where are they?”
Clearly, he hadn’t expected me to agree; his eyes roll like a terrified horse’s. “The—The new patron is here, mademoiselle. I do not think—”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I reply. “Perhaps he can answer our questions.”
Through an arch, I glimpse another pair of stone statues that flank an enormous staircase, the kind of thing that would be at home in a fairy-tale castle. None of the many sconces built into the walls and the statues are lit, but the shadows don’t mask the figures standing at the top.
“Thank you for your help, monsieur.” I whisk through the archway before he can do more than stutter.
Three men stand at the top of the staircase, two middle-aged gentlemen who must be the managers by their plain suits and the way they grovel towards the third figure, a well-built young man with golden curls and lightly tanned skin.
“Of course, Vicomte,” one of the older men says, pressings his palms together in front of his waist. Nervous, I think, though nothing else in his bearing gives me that impression. “We’d be delighted to hear your thoughts on the performance. It is only—Given this upset, perhaps we should postpone…”
A movement catches my attention. On either side of the statues, more stairs twist down into a lower level. Half hidden in the gloom is a young woman in white stockings and a gauzy tulle skirt. A lock of glossy black hair has come loose from her bun and lies in a curl against her neck. She leans into the folds of a statue’s robe, listening to the managers.
I glance once up the stairs, then walk closer to her, trying to mute the sound of my boots on the marble. “Mademoiselle?”
She glances at me and for a moment her eyes are hard, defensive, then her lashes dip and she’s smiling, her lips a fine pink bow. “Are you looking for the ticket office, mademoiselle?” Her voice is clear and lilting.
“I’m looking for someone who can help answer some questions,” I reply. “I understand that tonight’s performance has been cancelled?”
“That’s correct.” She doesn’t follow with an explanation and I find her eyeing me with the same guarded look I’m giving her.
I gesture at the steps that lead down to a round foyer shrouded in darkness. “Perhaps we could speak somewhere more quiet?”
“I—”
“About the lead dancer.”
She pauses, her gaze sharpening. After a moment, she nods and glides down the stairs. The lower ceiling muffles the men’s voices. “How can I help you, mademoiselle? Monsieur?” she adds, to Steel, with a bow. A quick glance from under her eyelashes sizes him up and I see her gaze linger on a stray thread dangling from his cuff and the scuff marks on his boots. She turns back to me. “You said you had questions.”
“Why has the performance been cancelled?” I ask, first.
The woman raises one shoulder. “One of our dancers is missing.”
“Aren’t there understudies for that kind of thing?”
“There should be,” she answers, unexpectedly acidic. “But there aren’t. Not for La Sorelli.”
“The prima ballerina,” I prompt, thinking of the poster at the train station.
Her eyes narrow. “You know her?”
“I know of her. Are you sure that she’s only missing?”
“What do you mean?”
I can’t find any deception in her expression. “There’s something—”
“And this is our rear entrance.” The three men descend into the foyer, the two managers leading and the Vicomte trailing behind. “Indeed,” one of the managers continues, ignoring us, “La Carlotta will soon be practising her aria. I’m sure she’d be delighted to perform for our newest patron.”
The dancer gives them a graceful curtsy, but says nothing, keeping her gaze trained on the floor as they pass. I follow her example and draw back into the shadows. The Vicomte’s gaze lingers on the dancer, his brows furrowing, but the managers draw him along on their tour.
“Perhaps we could speak to someone who knew her,” I say.
“Who are you, mademoiselle?” Her words are pointed. “What could an English woman have to do with our prima ballerina?”
“She’s dead,” Steel cuts in. The words linger in the air after he’s spoken and the woman’s expression clouds over.
“I do not appreciate your humour, monsieur.”
“It’s not a joke. We saw our body ourselves. That’s why we’re here.” I throw him a warning look, but he continues, “That’s why the performance has been cancelled, I’d bet. Or didn’t they tell you?”
Her fingers tighten. “It’s not true.”
“How long was she missing?” I ask.
It takes a moment for the dancer to respond. “Three days. She has been missing for three days.”
The body had been a lot fresher than that. She must have been kept somewhere before she was killed. Somewhere that facilitated those bruises, the burns.
We’re interrupted by a burly, middle-aged man in a blue shirt and tatty waistcoat, twine wrapped around his legs under his knees. Paint mottles his trousers and he carries a ladder on his shoulder. “What’re you doing up here, Daaé?” he asks the woman. “Get backstage, with the others. And you,” he adds, as the dancer drops a shallow curtsy and rushes away, showing none of the claws she’d flashed at me, “who are you? What are you doing, distracting our dancers?”
“Forgive me,” I begin, watching the woman he’d called Daaé throw a dark look over her shoulder as she leaves. “We’re investigating the death of a woman we believe to be La Sorelli. She was the opera’s prima ballerina, yes?”
“Death?” he repeats, his jaw dropping. He could be considered handsome, but for the uncombed beard matting his cheeks and the stains on the muffler around his neck. “She’s dead?”
“We believe so. We’re looking for whoever might have caused it.”
“Well, that’ll be the ghost, won’t it?” He shifts the ladder, grimacing at the weight.
“Ghost?” Steel repeats. “What ghost?”
The man works his jaw and goes to spit, but then looks at the shining marble floor and swallows. “I seen him, once, without his mask,” he says. “He’s a monster. Don’t let anyone tell you different. He’s the devil.”
