Angels of Music Read Free Page B

sniped one critic, ‘we’d have to wake up the enemy to shoot at him’); Chevalier Lucio del Gardo, a respected banker no one outside the Opera Ghost Agency would have believed moonlighted as a needlessly violent burglar known as ‘the Spine-Snapper’; Walter Parks Thatcher, the American statesman and banker; Simon Cordier, behind his back called ‘Monsieur le Guillotine’, a magistrate and sculptor, renowned for cool, balanced and unsympathetic verdicts in capital cases; and Cardinal Tosca, the Papal Legate, reputedly the greatest virtuoso of the boudoir to come (or be chased) out of Italy since Casanova.
    All were getting along in years, widowed or lifelong bachelors, and had recently taken to wife much younger, socially unknown women, or – in the Cardinal’s case – brought her into his household as official servant and unofficial bed-warmer. All had reversed long-held public positions since their happy unions, made peculiar public statements or financial transactions, been far less often seen in society than before (Gérard was not the only old bridegroom to be missed at his favourite brothel) and were reported by estranged friends and relations to have ‘changed their spots’. All, it transpired, had first encountered their current spouses at
soirées
hosted, on an absurdly well-appointed barge in the Seine, by one Countess Joséphine Balsamo. Some said the Countess was a direct descendant of the purported sorcerer Cagliostro. It was believed among the peers of
la Présidente
that the Countess was directress of an unofficial wedding bureau, schooling girls plucked from orphanages or jails in the skills necessary to hook a prominent husband, arranging discreet disposal of the lovestruck old men, then taking a tithe from the widows’ inheritances. A flaw in the theory was that none of the husbands, as yet, had died in the expected mysterious circumstances – several long-term moaning invalids had leaped from apparent deathbeds and taken to cavorting vigorously with their pixie-like sylph brides.
    Christine held, against experience, to the possibility that nothing more was amiss than a collection of genuine May to December romances (‘More like March to Next February,’ commented Irene) which should be protected from the jealous wiles of Erik’s client. Trilby considered malfeasance was likely on the part of these men of wealth and influence, and that the Countess Joséphine was simply a well-dressed procuress with a dubious title. She felt the true victims of the Marriage Club were the unfortunate, nearly-nameless children given over into the beds of men who purchased them as they might a hunting dog or a painting. Irene suspected everyone was up to no good, and wondered what their angle on
l’affaire Balsamo
ought to be. She was as much magpie as eagle and it occurred to her that this case should afford access to households where valuables might be carelessly strewn about for the filching.
    The Persian, through his police and government contacts, had obtained a list of the Countess’s holdings. Few of her interests were in the name she most commonly used. These papers were passed through a shutter, to the chamber behind the mirror.
    ‘This seems the most likely “lead”,’ said Erik, after a perusal. ‘
École de Danse Coppélius
. The Countess is a “sleeping partner”. Young women of barely marriageable age and malleable personality might be found in a dancing school,
hein
?’
    The Persian showed again the photograph of Poupée Gérard. In the corner of the picture were scratched the initials ‘
É.d.D.C.
’
    ‘It’s a perfect front,’ said Irene, getting the talk back on track. ‘Haul ’em in, paint ’em up, sell ’em off.’
    A lever was thrown, and two wardrobe doors sprung open, disclosing three varied sets of female attire and one suit of male evening dress (with turban). The girls knew at once which were their costumes. The Persian took the turban.
    ‘Christine, Trilby,’ said