CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Philidor

HE NEEDED TO pace in a confined space. It did no good to walk the grounds; the air was so damned foggy this afternoon, it was suffocating. And he liked to puff tobacco against the walls and talk aloud, shout if necessary, until he found his way through the problem. And it was a large one. Actually, there were a number of them.

On top of Cavendish’s letter received even before breakfast and the perplexing conversation with Marie in her bedchamber, he’d then been delivered a letter from the Bank of London: they had discovered his deception and were insisting on the immediate return of the money. They intended to notify the London authorities. He wondered if that tight little manager could have been quietened with a bribe but he only had the takings from their latest show, nothing more. He was ruined, and Marie must not know. There was a chance it would all come good, that the money would flow in, if Marie’s plan with Cavendish worked. Philidor just needed more time.

He took a puff and exhaled, then spat with sudden fury. How dare this Cavendish insult him by casting aspersions about the renovations – what rot. Cavendish was too mad to see that Philidor was doing him a favour; he was drawing in money, and Cavendish could have benefited from it. But no, he was beyond reason, there was no doubt of that. In fact, if he hadn’t had his own money, title and estate to protect him, he would have been locked up in Bethlem himself years ago.

Now Marie was claiming she knew something about this madman – something significant enough to ensure they could stay. Well, Philidor didn’t like being kept in the dark, although he hoped her plan would work. But would she then demand more money? She had already declared that Cavendish was now to communicate through her, when Philidor was the proprietor of the show; without him, she would still be holed up in Paris.

His eyes were stinging with the denseness of the smoke, and his stomach tightened as he realised he had been in his room all morning and not eaten since he had his breakfast delivered. He rang the bell for a servant. This afternoon Marie would feel the sting of his absence; he would take dinner in his bedchamber and send a reply to the bank, plead his ignorance and request more time. If only he had his damned gold tobacco box with the real ring. Where in heaven’s name was it?

The maid knocked and entered, and he told her he wanted dinner in his room.

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, and he noticed her eyes were red. ‘And this is from Madame Tussaud.’ She handed Philidor a folded letter which he took abruptly without opening it.

‘Have you been crying?’ he taunted.

‘No, sir.’ She hurriedly wiped the tears before raising her fist to stifle a cough. ‘I will have Cook organise your plate.’

‘Is Madame Tussaud having dinner as usual?’

‘To my knowledge, sir. I haven’t been instructed otherwise.’

‘To your knowledge? And exactly what knowledge do you possess, girl?’ he said, his stomach twisting with smoke and irritation.

She didn’t reply, but her eyes filled again.

‘And open the window! Can’t you sense it’s too stuffy in here, or must you be told to do everything?’

She clicked the latch and pushed it open, leaning forward more than he thought necessary to inhale the fresh air. ‘Oh,’ she said, and her hand jumped up to her throat. ‘I thought I saw, thought I saw —’

‘What, girl? Stop stuttering, it’s an infuriating habit.’

‘My sister. I mean, it looked like her, but then I was only …’

‘What?’

‘I thought I saw a woman down there, running across the grounds into the forest. She looked like my sister.’

‘Get away from the window, you silly girl. If you can’t recognise your own sister, you’re a greater fool than I thought, and it is unpardonable for you to make a spectacle of yourself when serving me.’

The maid turned on him then. ‘My sister’s dead, sir. Has been for sixteen years.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He pushed her out of the way to see for himself. ‘Are you saying you saw a ghost?’

‘No, sir. Can’t you see the footprints on the grass?’

‘Where?’

But the maid had retreated and was now at the door.

‘You must stop this nonsense,’ he commanded. ‘You caused a fuss at the show, and now you’ve forgotten your place. Your sister is dead. Your duty now is to serve. Get to it.’

He saw her take a breath and the tone in which she replied to him was anything but subservient. It almost sounded like it held a threat. ‘I’ll pass the message to Cook directly, sir, and bring your plate up when it’s ready.’

He remained by the window, peering into the fog that spun through the air, bringing movement and life where there was none. He saw no woman, no footprints and no reason to believe the maid. Despite her parting tone, she was a simple-minded, fanciful child whose nerves had been frayed by her fainting fit and by waiting on a gentleman well above her station. Yet another hysterical woman – they should all be locked up.

Leaving the window open, he returned to sit at his desk and open the letter from Marie. Excellent. It seemed Cavendish had agreed to her terms, whatever they were, and they were to stay and continue the show’s schedule as planned; the next one was in four nights time. Cavendish had also agreed to them each receiving visitors as they saw fit, without going through all the previously stated rules. But what did Marie know to hold him in check? Did this mean she was still useful to him?

No, whatever agreement she had made with Cavendish, without his knowledge or permission, was sure to be trouble. With the next show on schedule he would approach Cavendish himself and talk with him, gentleman to gentleman, with the valet’s aid. The valet seemed to be a clever chap who knew what he wanted and recognised a fortuitous opportunity when it presented itself. Ambitious, that was it. Yes Philidor was sure, with the valet on his side, that the duke could be made to see the foolishness of dealing with a woman, especially one who had proven herself, in front of the ever so trusted valet, to be hysterical. Then he, Philidor, could broker a new arrangement that would suit him better with Marie being taken care of by Gribble. All he needed to do was steal her notebook in order to use the new recipe recorded in there to make more wax. And he could simply engage the services of an apprentice doll maker for ongoing maintenance; a young girl selected by him who would be paid almost nothing while asking no questions.

He paused to consider his next actions. He would write to the bank, compose a letter arranging for Gribble to visit on the morrow then meet with the attendants again for another rehearsal in the ballroom. And all the while he would try very hard not to think about the empty space on his desk.