Death and Transfiguration

Chapter 15

My jaw dropped, unable to believe what I had just heard. How could Lajoie possibly be dead? I had seen him earlier that week at the Order of the Nightingales meeting, playing his tuba, talking with the other Nightingales, making sure that everyone felt at home. It was unreal, hearing that someone had murdered him, and even worse, it felt like déjà vu, like I was reliving Bergmann's death once again.

"Miss Brackenborough, are you okay?" Moreau asked me as I stood in place, shocked.

"I just...I can't...I can't believe it," I stammered. "How could Mr. Lajoie be dead?"

Moreau wiped away a tear, and I could tell that he was struggling to remain composed. "I don't know, but maybe we should go home," he said.

I looked toward the Palais Garnier one last time, and just as I was about to walk away, I had a brilliant idea. "No, let's stay here for a little while," I said. "I want to go inside and see what happened."

"Are you mad?" Moreau said. "Miss Valencourt must be rubbing off on you."

"I'm serious, Mr. Moreau," I said. "I don't know about you, but I'd like to know what happened. We might be able to find out who killed Lajoie, and it might shine some light on the Bergmann case."

"There is so much that is wrong with that, Miss Brackenborough," Moreau said. "For one, we probably won't find anything. We'll probably just end up as suspects, and I don't know about you, but I'd rather not be questioned by the police about why I was at the Palais Garnier."

"But I want to know what happened."

"We'll read it in the paper tomorrow, I'm sure."

"That won't tell us everything."

"It could be dangerous in there."

"I'm sure the murderer's gone by now."

Moreau paused for a moment and adjusted his spectacles. "You know this has nothing to do with Bergmann, right?" he said.

"It's another murder in almost the exact same location. Maybe it's the same person who committed the crime."

"We don't know that, and the police are far better equipped to catch the murderer than we are," Moreau said. "Let's just go home. I have a train to catch early tomorrow, and I'd like to be well-rested for my journey."

"Come on, Mr. Moreau," I said as he began to walk away. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

Moreau paused for a long time and then said, "This is quite possibly the worst idea you've ever had, Miss Brackenborough. If we get in trouble for this, I only hope that you will remember my objections."

"So you're coming with me?" I said.

Moreau sighed. "I suppose so," he said, and with that, the two of us walked into the Palais Garnier, the gilded figures on top of the facade watching over us as we entered the building.

As soon as we walked in, we were greeted by an onslaught of orchestra musicians trying to leave the building. I spotted a few familiar faces, most of whom I recognized from the Order of the Nightingale, but all of them looked terrified as they grabbed onto their instruments and ran out of the opera house. "Maybe we should go back," Moreau said to me, but even as every memory from the night of Bergmann's death came rushing into my head, I pressed onwards.

Eventually, I found Lajoie's body, lying in a pool of blood at the bottom of the staircase, only a few feet away from where Bergmann had died. It was hard to believe that this was the same good-humored tuba player who had hosted all of those Order of the Nightingales meetings: his eyes were still wide open and staring up at the chandelier, and his face was frozen in a fearful expression. His right foot was mangled, and his chest was a bloody mess, with a gaping hole going right through his sternum.

"No," Moreau said as he shed another tear. "It can't be. Lajoie...he was so kind to everyone he met. He wouldn't hurt a fly. Why would anyone do this to him?"

"I don't know, Mr. Moreau."

"I'm going to miss him so much. The Order of the Nightingales won't be the same without him."

I nodded, but all of a sudden, I spotted a bullet lying on the first step of the staircase. The murderer must have shot at least thrice, I realized as I crouched down to get a closer look. The bullet was somewhat large, as if it had been shot from a rifle rather than from a handgun or shotgun. Beyond that, I couldn't say for sure what sort of weapon the murderer had used.

Before I could investigate further, Robiquet rushed in, followed by three of his superior officers. "Not...not this again," Robiquet said as soon as he saw the corpse. He proceeded to vomit into the nearest garbage can, while one of the other police officers glared at Moreau and I.

"What are you two doing here?" he asked.

I decided to tell the truth. "Mr. Lajoie is...was...a friend of ours," I said. "We wanted to know what happened to him."

"That's a job for the police, not for some meddling kids," the officer said.

"We'll be going then," Moreau said. "I'm sorry for bothering you, officer." He walked out of the Palais Garnier, and I quickly followed him, as much as I would have liked to stick around and investigate further.

As we passed by the conservatory again, I thought of all of the Order of the Nightingales meetings I had been to, all of the times Lajoie's friendly presence had cheered me up after a rough day. It broke my heart knowing that I would never get to see his smiling face again, that I would never get to experience those memories again.

I looked toward Moreau, who had a melancholy look on his face. "I don't know why we went in there," he said. "It made me miss him more, not less."

"I don't know," I said. "I know this sounds strange, but it felt like it gave me some closure, like I got a chance to say goodbye."

"But you wanted to know who killed him, and merely inspecting the body told us nothing," Moreau said. "We're just as clueless as ever."

"I still think that the same person must have killed both Bergmann and Lajoie."

"We don't know that."

"They were killed within weeks of each other in almost the same location."

"But the way they were killed is different," Moreau observed. "Bergmann was hit with a heavy object, causing him to fall from the staircase, while Lajoie was shot. It couldn't have been the same killer."

"The murderer could have changed their method."

"It's unlikely."

There was a period of silence, and as the two of us headed back into the Quartier de la Porte Saint-Denis, I remarked, "I don't think Mr. Sylvestre did it though."

"I don't think we can rule anyone out yet."

"I disagree, Mr. Moreau," I said. "For example, I know you didn't kill Mr. Lajoie because you were with me when the murder happened."

"You're right about that, Miss Brackenborough, but I still feel like you're making far too many assumptions."

Before I could respond, Moreau and I arrived at the boarding house. We both went upstairs, and I said goodbye to Moreau one last time, knowing that he was leaving in the morning. Gertie's door was open, and she was leaning back, her feet up on her desk as she perused through one of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries she'd brought with her from Cambridge. I waved to her, but she hardly seemed to notice.

As soon as I entered my room, I collapsed onto the bed, my mind feeling as if it was about to break. I couldn't take it anymore: the murders, the secrets, the constant feeling of grief pounding through my head. All I wanted was for it to be over, for the killer to be brought to justice.

I would solve this mystery if it killed me.