Dead bodies interrupted my dessert course.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy discussing what lies on a slab in the city morgue, but the majestic puff pastry conceived by the master chef of the most luxurious hotel in Alenbonné deserves its due.
Besides, there is no need to rush when discussing the dead. They don’t go anywhere. Normally.
From the far end of the banquet room, I saw the hotel manager, Henri Colbert, about to move protectively towards me, but I shook my head. Sergeant Dupont was a rude bore and wouldn’t harm me. Besides, even an elite establishment like the Crown must obey the law, unless enough royal coins crossed palms.
To Sergeant Dupont I commanded, “Sit, and be silent. I will not have a gendarme ruin a work of art made by the incomparable Gerhard Perdersen.”
Dupont collapsed into a chair with as much refinement as a sack filled with a week’s worth of laundry. The man lacked presence. His round face had the impassive slackness of a bored cow, and his wrinkled gendarme uniform of navy blue with red trim had a grease stain on the lapel.
My demand for order rose in me and I scolded him, “You’re in a hotel where your annual salary wouldn’t pay for a night’s rest. Remove your hat and show some respect.”
He grabbed the flat hard cap off his head with pudgy hands.
Taking another bite, I tried to recapture the bliss in my mouth: the caramelized sugar-coated flaky pastry layers, sandwiched with the softness of cream, juxtaposed with the very slight hardness of chopped pistachios— No, my delight was over. Thoughts of murder were too distracting. I opened my eyes and sighed, dabbing my cloth napkin at the corners of my mouth, before saying. “Now, begin again.”
“A body from the river. Dead perhaps three days. The inspector wants you to make it talk, Madame Chalamet.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” I waved over a server, a clean-shaved young man wearing the traditional service colors of black trousers and a vest with a starched white shirt. He had too much oil in his hair, but his nails were clean and manicured, and his shoes polished to a mirror shine. Dupont could take some tips.
“You may take my plate away. Bring two coffees, one for myself and another for my guest.”
“No time, madame.” The cow bent forward, gaining a little animation to his features. “We cannot keep mysir de duke waiting.”
My breath quickened at his words. Why would a noble be interested in the death of a nameless body? “A duke? Alenbonné has only three in residence.”
“Mysir de Archambeau.”
I stood. “Come, sergeant, if Mysir de Archambeau wishes the dead to speak, we must not delay him. You gain us a quick-cab while I get my bag from my rooms.”
As I entered my hotel suite, I called for my assistant, Anne-Marie. Wiping her hands with a dishtowel, she entered the main room from the door leading to our kitchenette. She was a thin girl, in her teens, quick-footed, and smart as a whip.
“We have a case. Tell me what you know of Mysir de Archambeau.”
Her hazel eyes gleamed like bright stars in her brown face, for the girl loved gossip and was thus an invaluable resource, besides being a hard worker. She followed me to the dressing room next to my bedroom. One armoire held my clothes, the other the tools of my Ghost Talking trade.
The walnut cabinet once stored my father’s jewelry-making tools and supplies. I stroked the dark brown wood and opening the two doors released the fragrance of the stored herbs. Taking a moment, I breathed in deeply, relishing in the scents that spelled magic for me. Shelves now held rows of amber glass bottles filled with my custom tinctures. Depending on the need, there were solutions to encourage or discourage the dead. Powders, resins, leaf, and root.
My fingers ran over their corked tops and paper packets, deciding which I might need tonight. Definitely Eyesbright to enhance my sight. Something for protection; the dead always attracted corruption. And another to persuade the conscious to give way.
While I packed my leather satchel, Anne-Marie told me what she knew.
“Mysir de duke is in his mid-thirties and has a townhouse with a decent address. It’s near the government offices, but not what I would call the fashionable side of town. While an aristo, he has not claimed his family seat in parliament. Instead, the consensus is that he acts as a general dogsbody for King Guénard.”
“Any recent deaths of relatives or those he might care about?”
“He’s a widower, but she died some years ago. A natural death, but I’d have to look in the archives to be sure.”
“Find out the details for me.”
In the drawer, I pulled out my man-stopper, a small pistol that could easily fit inside a woman’s muff or purse. It could fire four shots. It was a pretty little piece with a mother-of-pearl handle and was a gift from Anne-Marie’s sailor father. I tucked it into a deep pocket of my skirt, designed to hold it. It was always best to have it close at hand when dealing with the dead.
“I’m heading to the city morgue and don’t know when I’ll return. Don’t wait up.”
“Happy Haunting,” she said as I headed out the door.
I handed my bag up to the Sergeant and then gathered my skirts up to mount the step into the 2-person coach. I would rather not have been this close to the sergeant, least of all because of the scent of old cooked cabbage that he emitted, but the black taxi was the best way to get across town.
With a crack of the whip, we surged forward and the dessert at the Crown hotel faded from memory to be replaced with another thrill. With Mysir de Archambeau involved, it meant this case would be important and unusual. A lout from the streets being rolled for coin and dumped into one of the city’s many canals would not interest an aristo. No, this was something far more important.
No, the victim would be someone significant, or possibly with relatives of some stature. Or perhaps he was a master criminal, stealing state secrets? Something would have captured the duke’s attention.
“Tell me about this body,” I said to Dupont.
“Male, late thirties. Maybe early forties. Dead.”
“Do you know why Mysir de Archambeau is interested?”
My question received only a blank stare from the dull-witted sergeant. It made me wonder why his superior, Inspector Barbier, a man fastidious in dress and manner, kept the crude Dupont at his man. But once when I had seen Dupont wade into a riot without thought, pitching men to the left and right like he was mowing hay with a scythe, it become clear. The inspector was small for a man, and with one leg shorter than the other, he was slow to give chase. Dupont was his nightstick, his club.
The whip cracked over our heads and the quick-cab exited the drive of the Crown hotel and flew into the traffic of the avenue with such force that I grabbed the shoulder strap to prevent myself from falling into Dupont’s lap. We narrowly missed colliding into a farmer’s cart filled with hay. Truly, a city driver with the heart of a lion!
Fortunately, our pace slowed when our driver found himself behind a legal clerk in his black robes, riding an unflappable horse. The cab driver shouted at him to give the road over, but horse and rider kept steady with their bone-rattling pace, and the traffic to the side did not permit a safe pass.
The crescent-shaped street ran parallel to the curving of the canal. Behind us were the finer hotels and apartments, and now the house of the well-to-do merchants and tradesman stood with their ornamental ironwork marking off each little plot in front of their doorstep.
We turned to cross the humpback bridge and entered Café Street. Finally escaping our clerk and his horse, our cab surged forward along this boulevard, where gossip was traded over hot or cold drinks, and platters filled with crackers, olives, and slices of that salty and expensive delicacy of thinly sliced Dibiko ham were consumed with relish.
Most of the trees had lost their autumn leaves and the evening chill was settling in as the gas streetlights were lit. The crowds were gone and only the staff remained to remove the outdoor tables and chairs, storing them away until tomorrow.
The city of Alenbonné was changing, putting on her evening clothes, readying herself for a night of dining and theater in the entertainment district. Pockets picked, drunk fools seduced, or perhaps the day would end with simply a family around the fireplace after a long day's work.
A few more blocks and our path took us to the student district. When King Guénard took the throne, his interest in funding education was minimal and, as royal patronage ceased, the aristocracy followed suit.
The area was not prosperous: there were no decorative trees, no wide pavements for strolling, no street lamps or genteel cafes. Ironwork here was serviceable, not decorative. Boards covered doors and windows, and grime darkened the exterior brick.
Vagrants huddled in doorways, their hands tucked into their armpits, hats pulled down low, like sleeping birds. But they were city birds, dull in plumage and faded into their corners.
There was an element of defiance about the place I always admired; like an unrepentant youth that sings a taunting tune when hauled off by the gendarme for stealing a pear from a street vendor’s cart. So I gave a smirk when the cabdriver opened the roof flap to tell us, “Streets blocked ahead. Another protest about the king’s treaty, I expect. Do you want me to take an alley? Try to get around?”
“No!” I said, alarmed at his recklessness. “Let’s wait a moment. I'll compensate you for your time.”
The door flap shut. I heard shouting and saw hand-painted signs being waved. It seemed they were angry that King Guénard was once again planning to raise taxes on imports when we renewed our treaty with Perino.
Students were still optimistic enough to attempt changing a world that dismissed them as next to worthless. It either made you want to laugh or cry.
The crowd moved, streaming around us. One rapped the door of the closed carriage ahead of us and when an angry face emerged, they gave him a raspberry before laughing and moving onward.
A cheeky lad tipped his hat to me, and I had to suppress a desire to give him a smile back. The dozen or so students behind shoved him forward, and then they were all gone. Their ditty about a cockerel only suited for the cooking pot faded away; the ribald lyrics were amusing, but not a great compliment to our good king.
With the street clear, we reached our destination, the university’s medical school, which also served as the city morgue. Here, scholars amused themselves by slicing open the less fortunate while I researched departed spirits.
The carriage passed through the security gates. When the coach stopped, I popped open the door and jumped down the step. Dupont handed me out my leather valise, and after paying the cabbie, we walked to the solid anonymous door that was the portal to medical wing. As the sergeant opened it, I smelled death.
Down the hall were angry voices, and entering the surgery, I gave Inspector Barbier standing at the doorway a nod of acknowledgment.
“Thanks for coming, Elinor. Welcome to the circus.”
Unlike his sergeant, he wore every-day clothes for the working man: a brown tweed coat, with matching trousers and a waistcoat with black buttons. Barbier’s long dour face was that of a mournful hound disappointed with his life: large brown eyes, flat hollow cheeks, and a long black mustache that brushed the corners of his mouth. With his chin tucked to his chest, he was slowly stroking the ends, a sign of deep concentration.
It was the surgeon, Doctor LaRue, who was arguing. She was at least twenty years older than my almost-thirty, rail thin, like a vine bean, with an oval face and a nose that would shame the beak of a water bird.
She wore dark blue trousers and a black vest, a daring choice for a woman. Her rolled-up shirtsleeves exposed strong sinewy forearms that were still red, evidence she had scrubbed them with the harsh bar soap used in the morgue, but her apron was still white, proving she hadn’t started the autopsy yet.
The doctor was a very skilled butcher of men, but not so excellent as a bedside healer; she was a blunt speaker and without a grain of sentimentality. I found her a good friend.
The only other occupant of the room was a woman I knew little about but recognized: Madame Nyght. She was a flashy bird among us plain crows, dressed in a bold black-and-white striped satin, with the smallest waist the best corset could make, and a stylish hat that dripped with jet fringe.
You might mistake Nyght for a rich man’s mistress. In truth, she was a huckster, a fraud who amused the rich. I wish I had her clientèle.
"I don't care who told you to be here. This is my surgery and I am in charge here," snapped Dr. LaRue.
“Do you think I wish to be here looking at your dead meat? Taken from my home and escorted here by a gendarme?” Seeing her wild gestures puncturing the air made me believe the rumor that she had once worked on the stage before becoming a Ghost Talker.
Madame Nyght pointed at me. “First you ask for my help, then you insult me by bringing this donkey here?”
"As I've been saying, I don't want you here," replied Dr. LaRue tersely.
“Is she calling me a donkey?” I asked, turning to Inspector Barbier.
“Don’t feel insulted. She called me a mule, and Dr. LaRue, a goat.”
“A fixation on barnyard animals, perhaps?”
“You’d have to take that up with a mind-doctor. I only catch them, not explain them.”
Madame Nyght made a dismissive hiss and waved her hand at us all. “Do I crawl into the gutters and look for dead bodies? No. I am Madame Nyght. I am genteel and talk with spirits in the drawing rooms of the best society.”
Behind me, a voice with the harshness of a northern accent said, “And tonight we will be grateful for whatever your talents can reveal to us about this mystery.”
The Duke de Archambeau had arrived.