Death and Transfiguration

Chapter 18

When I arrived at Sylvestre's house the next day, I immediately asked him about the telegram. "I met a rather interesting woman the other day, and I thought you'd like to meet her," he said. "Besides, we never get a chance to talk. We've known each other for nearly a month, and I still hardly know anything about you."

It wasn't much of an explanation, but nevertheless, I agreed to come to dinner, if only so I could figure out what was going on. I went through my day as usual, although Sophie was even more cranky than she usually was when it came time for her piano lesson, and Gertie stopped by in the middle of the day to tell me about the book she was reading, much to my annoyance. Perhaps there's nothing out of the ordinary going on at all, I thought to myself as Gertie told me every last twist and turn in the novel she'd just finished. Perhaps Sylvestre really just wants me to meet this woman he's so fascinated by.

Around five o'clock, Bertrand Sylvestre returned home with both Jean-Luc and the mysterious woman he'd invited over. She was plain-looking - the sort of woman I would never be able to pick out in a crowd - and as I watched this woman, I wondered what in the world Sylvestre saw in her. She wasn't attractive, but she wasn't ugly either. She was so dull that she might as well have been invisible.

The woman noticed me staring at her, and she said, "I'm Jeanne Dupont. What's your name?"

"Matilda Brackenborough," I said.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Brackenborough," Miss Dupont said as I wondered what was going on here. Everything about her was average, from her voice to her fashion sense to her name. I couldn't figure out why Sylvestre had invited her here, or why it was so important that I come to this dinner. Yet again, nothing seemed to make sense.

Sylvestre introduced Dupont to the children, and soon, all of us sat down to eat. As I ate my soup, Sylvestre and Dupont started talking about some politician I had never heard of, while Sophie started doodling in a notebook, and Jean-Luc stared into the distance, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here. I knew exactly how he felt: if I had the choice, I would have liked to be at home with Gertie, or at the fencing hall with Léa, or in Nantes with Moreau.

"It's a shame that we don't have a better police force," Dupont said. "Maybe if we did, those murders would have been solved by now."

Sylvestre nodded. "I heard about Lajoie's death in Le Petit Journal," he said. "It's truly unfortunate - I heard him play with the Paris Opera a few times, and he's an excellent tuba player. I don't know where they'll find a replacement."

"Where were you on the night of the murder, by the way?" Dupont asked.

"I was at home with Sophie," Sylvestre said. "We were out in the lawn, and I was teaching her how to play croquet. After the sun went down, I went inside and made her dinner, and then she went to bed."

"What about Jean-Luc? Where was he?"

"He was at rehearsal, of course."

I looked toward Jean-Luc, and for a moment, I felt bad for him: the poor kid must have been traumatized after being in the rehearsal room. However, it seemed like he was tuning out the conversation entirely as he reached across the table for another bread roll.

"What about you, Miss Dupont?" Sylvestre asked.

"Me?" Dupont said. "I was in London, visiting a friend."

"How interesting. Miss Brackenborough is from London too."

"Yes, I can tell," Dupont said. "Her accent gives it away." There was a pause, and then Dupont asked, "Were you close with Lajoie at all?"

"We were acquaintances, but certainly not friends," Sylvestre said. "He was in charge of some strange organization...something called the Order of the Nightingales? My wife was involved in it for a few years."

"You're married?" Dupont said as she looked toward Sylvestre's bare ring finger.

"My wife passed away last year," Sylvestre said. "Cholera."

"I'm sorry," Dupont said. "I'm sure that must be hard."

"It's nothing to be sorry about. I still miss her, of course, but it's been over a year. At some point, you have to move on."

Dupont nodded and said, "So what's this about the Order of the Nightingales? I've never heard of them."

"Honestly, I don't know much about them either. Lajoie tried to recruit me, but I wasn't particularly interested in joining."

I considered jumping in and telling Dupont and Sylvestre what I knew, but I figured that it wouldn't help at all. After all, this was nothing more than speculation, and I doubted that the Order of the Nightingales had anything to do with Lajoie's death.

"They're some sort of secret society, but Claire never told me much about what she did there," Sylvestre said.

"Interesting," Dupont said.

"Well, what did you expect?" Sylvestre said with a laugh. "They're a secret society, Miss Dupont."

"Yes, but she was your wife, wasn't she?"

"We didn't tell each other everything," Sylvestre said, but Miss Dupont was staring at the wall.

"Is there supposed to be something in that display case?" she asked.

Sylvestre looked toward the wall and then looked back at Miss Dupont, genuinely shocked. "My...my hunting rifle," he said. "It was there. It was there just a moment ago. What happened to it?!"

Sylvestre got up to inspect the empty display case, but he couldn't figure out what had happened to his rifle. It was as if it had simply disappeared.

"Someone must have stolen it," Sylvestre said. "Miss Brackenborough! You haven't touched my gun, have you?"

"No, of course not," I said. I tried to remember when the last time I had seen the rifle was, but I hadn't paid much attention to Sylvestre's wall decor. It could have been missing for weeks, and somehow, none of us had noticed.

If it was stolen, there were plenty of people who could have taken it. Lots of people had stopped by Sylvestre's house in the last few days - Moreau, Léa, and Gertie all had, along with a few of Sylvestre's fellow professors at the conservatory, the maid, and the butler. Any of them could have easily stolen it.

Sylvestre sat back down, but he seemed worried, paranoid even. Every few seconds, he glanced back toward the empty display case, panicked. Meanwhile, Miss Dupont seemed quite satisfied with herself, and Jean-Luc and Sophie either didn't know or didn't care what was going on.

After dinner was over, Miss Dupont made some excuse about having to go grocery shopping before it got too late and said goodbye to all of us. As she walked out the door, I took one last look at her completely unremarkable features, and I realized exactly what was going on.

"I should go too," I told Sylvestre. "I have to work on my composition."

"The cello sonata?" Sylvestre said.

"Actually, I've started working on a symphony," I said.

"That's nice, Miss Brackenborough, but you need to focus on one project at a time. Finish the cello sonata, and then we can talk about writing a symphony."

I hardly listened - sometimes Sylvestre gave useful advice, but what I wrote wasn't up to him. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Sylvestre," I said coldly as I walked out the door, knowing that if I hesitated too much longer, I might not get a chance to talk to Miss Dupont.

When I left Sylvestre's house, she was already several yards ahead of me, and I had to walk quickly to catch up with her. Just as she was about to turn a corner, I shouted, "I know who you are!"

"Miss Brackenborough," Dupont said. "What are you doing?"

"I know who you are," I said. "You're the detective Mr. de Villiers hired."