The Angel of the Opera Read online

  Holmes smiled. “Perhaps. And have you seen this ghost?”

  “No, but many of the dancers have, and Joseph Buquet did before the ghost killed him.”

  “Did you know Monsieur Buquet?”

  Her lips briefly formed a small circle. “He was a vile man. None of the dancers–the decent ones–liked him. They warned me to watch out for him.”

  Holmes had crossed his legs, and his boot began to bob up and down. “So you believe that the spirits of the dead can return?”

  Her green eyes grew even more intense, and she closed her small hand about a gold cross hanging from her neck. “Oui, certainement.”

  “Have you ever met such a spirit?”

  She hesitated only an instant. “No.”

  “That is a very pretty cross you have there. Are you a Catholic?”

  “Oh yes, Monsieur.”

  “And what does your faith tell you about ghosts?”

  “That the spirits of the dead are all about us, especially the souls of those who loved us and of the saints to whom we pray. Often I sense that my father is quite close, especially when I am singing. I know that there are other spirits very different from us, full of great powers. There are the wicked devils and the angels, many many beautiful angels. Archangels, seraphim, cherubim, and... others.”

  Normally I would have been inclined to smile at such a discourse, but the girl had such a hold on us with those eyes of hers, and the room was so dim and dreary, that she had me half seeing spirits floating about the ether. Holmes appeared rather grim. I saw his face and mine in the mirror. It is most distracting trying to carry on a conversation while staring at your reflection. I turned my chair slightly.

  “Have you ever seen an angel?”

  Again a faint hesitation. “No, Monsieur.”

  He stared at her, but she looked past him, the same faint rosy flush showing alongside her ear. “Very well. Do you have any idea why the Phantom would concern himself with your career as a singer?”

  “What, Monsieur?” Her surprise was genuine.

  “Do you know why the Phantom might take an interest in your singing?”

  “No. I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “There are many who want you to sing Marguerite in Faust, the de Chagnys for instance.”

  This time there was nothing subtle about her blushing, but her eyes were angry. She made one hand into a fist. “They think themselves very grand, especially the Count. I wish to become a great singer through my own efforts. Perhaps the world of opera does not work that way, but I shall try my way first.”

  “And the younger de Chagny? I hear he is an admirer of yours.”

  She smiled. “He can be very sweet, but at times he is much like his brother. His brother is very cold, and everyone knows about him and Sorelli.” She paused, her mouth twisting. “They deserve each other, those two.”

  Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “Indeed?”

  “All that interests her are furs and dresses and jewels. Dancing means nothing to her anymore.”

  “And you? What interests you?”

  “I want to be a great singer. I want people to think they have never heard such a voice before. I want to make sublime music, heavenly music, music that comes from the depths of my very soul.” Her eyes had grown hot again. “I shall have the furs and jewels, too, but they are not important.”

  “We hear you are well on your way. Even the London papers mentioned something of your triumph at the gala.”

  “It all came together that night, Monsieur Holmes! I had worked hard for so long, and as I stood there and sang, the music filled me with such power and beauty. I felt that I truly had become Marguerite–that I had triumphed over vice and squalor, that the angels had come at last to carry me home. The very air tingled, and I could sense the golden blur of their wings. It was so wonderful.”

  Holmes nodded. “I wish I could have heard you.”

  “But afterwards–afterwards I was so weary, and I fainted. It was silly, really, and I...” Her smile was gone, her countenance earth-bound again.

  “Yes?” Sherlock’s gray eyes were fixed on her, something faintly predatory in his gaze.

  “I was almost... afraid. I do not know. One must work so hard, and sometimes I am alone and afraid.” She laughed nervously. “I felt something like a ghost myself after that night. I was absolutely spent. Perhaps it will be easier next time.”

  Holmes sighed. I noticed him briefly staring at himself in the mirror. “Perhaps. By the way, who is your teacher, Mademoiselle?”

  Her face went pale, her mouth stiffening. “I received a degree from Le Conservatoire de Musique here in Paris.”

  “Ah, a first-rate institution, but with whom do you study now?”

  “No one, Monsieur Holmes. No one.”

  “That is rather unusual.”

  She said nothing and would not return his gaze, but her eyes again reminded me of a white-hot flame. “Monsieur, it is late, and I must be leaving soon.”

  Holmes took out his watch with great show. “Ah yes, it is very late. We shall no doubt see you again, Mademoiselle, and I hope to hear you sing. Perhaps there is a chance we may have the pleasure of your Marguerite this season.”

  She smiled sadly. “I fear not. I shall be singing Siebel as usual.”

  “Ah, well, that is a nice part. What do you think of Madame Carlotta’s voice? I have heard...”

  “She is an old cow, but she bleats like a billy goat!”

  Even Miss Daaé seemed surprised by her own sudden vehemence. She blushed. “I am sorry, but it is true. She is a spiteful, wicked woman, and she has been at me ever since the gala. She never misses an opportunity to make me squirm. She is an insufferable tyrant, rude to everyone. And her voice–she screeches and wobbles. I do not understand how the public will spend good money to... Pardon me, Monsieur, but as you can tell I do not care for her.”

  “Yes, so I noticed. Frankly, Mademoiselle Daaé–and this must remain in your confidence–I never much cared for her either, even in her prime some fifteen years ago. She was all volume and technique, little else.”

  “You understand! Are you musical then, Monsieur?”

  “I have some small talent with the violin.”

  “Well, some day I promise you shall hear me as Marguerite.”

  “I am certain of it, and perhaps it will happen sooner than you think.”

  “Oh, I hope so.”

  Holmes picked up his hat and gloves.

  I stood. “Mademoiselle Daaé, I am, alas, not so musical as my cousin, but I, too, look forward to hearing you sing. Faust is at least one opera where I can follow the story.”

  She laughed, and I was pleased.

  “Do you like the part of Marguerite?” Holmes asked.

  “Oh, very much. She is a young girl, very innocent, very trusting, and Faust thinks he loves her, but he destroys her. In the end, though, she triumphs over Faust and the devil. The angels carry her off to heaven, and Mephistopheles pulls Faust down to hell. The music suits my voice perfectly, and it is so beautiful, especially at the end in the dungeon when the angels come.”

  Holmes had stood. “Yes, it is quite a role. You should sing some Mozart as well. I wager you have just the voice for Zerlina or Susanna.”

  She clapped her hands together. “I love Mozart!”

  I noticed Holmes again staring at himself in the mirror. His eyes shifted, and he saw my reflection staring back at him. He turned, his mouth forming a smile. “That mirror is rather awkward. Do you not find it disconcerting, Mademoiselle Daaé, to have your reflection always following you about?”

  “Yes, Monsieur Holmes, I do. I sing before the mirror. It helps me to position my mouth right and form the tones, but I do not like it. Sometimes... sometimes I almost want to throw something over the mirror or even shatter it. This is childish I know, but I fear–I fear...” She laughed nervously. “I think my image may move apart from me, do something that shows it is another... thing, and not me at
all.”

  “Perhaps you should practice somewhere else, Mademoiselle Daaé, somewhere outside the Opera.”

  “Oh, no. I am used to my plain little dressing room and even my great mirror. Good evening, Monsieur Holmes, Doctor Vernier.”

  When we came out of the Opera, I was surprised to find it so dark. Carriages and pedestrians filled the Place de l’Opéra, people returning home from work or venturing forth for a night on the town. The gas streetlights had been lit, and the square was reassuringly bright after the dim interior of the Opera.

  “A charming girl,” I said.

  Holmes laughed. “Henri–Henri! You cannot resist a fine pair of eyes.”

  “Well, she did seem quite... spirited. I liked her.”

  “Did you see her face light up when I mentioned Carlotta? Une vieille vache. She said it with such venom. An odd combination that–lyrical moonbeams and artistic venom.”

  “I am certain this Carlotta has treated her poorly.”

  “Oh, no doubt of it. Did you remark her one glaring falsehood?”

  “Falsehood?”

  “Yes, a rather blatant one. A twenty-year-old soprano is never without a teacher, especially a soprano of any talent, especially a soprano who has scored a great triumph. There is nothing natural about singing a high florid line with trills and octave leaps. The fact that she created such a sudden sensation argues strongly that she has been working with a new teacher, one who was spectacularly successful. Why would she not tell us his or her name?”

  “Perhaps... the teacher does not want Carlotta to know of his involvement. Perhaps he, too, has a grudge against her.”

  Holmes stopped abruptly. A carriage passed before us, the horse’s hooves clopping rhythmically on the street. “An interesting idea, although perhaps a variation... the Phantom also condemned Carlotta’s singing.”

  I laughed. “Surely you do not believe a ghost would be giving her singing lessons?”

  “She was certainly preoccupied with spirits, a most unusual obsession for a young singer. The notion of a musical ghost does seem absurd, and I am always skeptical of the supernatural. In my long career I have dealt with many cases where supernatural powers were supposedly at work. In every single case a human agent, usually a malevolent one, was at work. I doubt this business will turn out any differently.”

  Three

  Early the next morning, there came a polite, gentle rap upon our door. Upon opening it, I saw an unctuous-looking gentleman whom I had taken for some permanent fixture behind the hotel front desk.

  “Monsieur Holmes?”

  I stood aside and gestured toward my cousin, who was finishing some correspondence. “How may I be of assistance?”

  “There is a... person downstairs who wishes to see you. I regret to say that she does not appear of be of that class which frequents the Grand. Knowing your desire for privacy, I attempted to send her about her business, but she will have none of it. She vows loudly that wild horses cannot drag her away and that she will remain in the lobby until she can see you. I could, of course, have her removed, but it would create a most disagreeable scene. I thought I would inquire of you if...”

  “And what is this imposing person’s name?”

  “Madame Giry.”

  “Ah, then I fear, sir, that you have completely misjudged the situation. Although she is a trifle eccentric, Madame Giry is an old and dear friend.”

  The blood drained slowly from the man’s face. “Forgive me, Monsieur Holmes. If you wish, I shall bring her to you at once.”

  “Do so, Monsieur.”

  The man bowed stiffly, turned, and left.

  I closed the door, then glanced at Holmes. “Who is this Madame Giry? I do not recall...”

  “Were you daydreaming during our interview yesterday with the managers? She was the box keeper whom they dismissed. One of the Ghost’s demands was that she be reinstated.”

  “Oh, yes. Her name had completely escaped me. Whatever can she want?”

  A few minutes later we heard another knock, the twin of the earlier one. No sooner had I opened the door, than a large woman dressed in black swept into the room. Behind her stood the hotel man, his mouth agape.

  “Monsieur Sherlock Holmes, I must speak with you!”

  “And so you shall, Madame Giry.” My cousin rose, and with a smile he gestured at an overstuffed chair.

  Madame Giry was a most imposing presence. I could well understand her giving the hotel management some unquiet moments. Her face was flushed; and her large neck, her moon-shaped chin beneath another chin, was even broader than her head. A few gray ringlets showed beneath an enormous black hat, but her eyebrows and the hairs above either corner of her mouth were still black. She wore a bustle, an unfortunate choice, as it made her posterior appear even larger; one could imagine the formidable thews of a small bull beneath those copious sable skirts. Sitting in a bustle is something of a project; we heard swishing, shifting sounds, small groans, and a creak. She opened her mouth to sigh, and I noticed she was missing teeth. Those which remained were an unhealthy color.

  “This is my cousin, Doctor Henri Vernier.” Holmes nodded at me. “What can I do for you, Madame Giry?”

  “Is it true, Monsieur Holmes? Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “Is it true that you have been hired to exorcise the Ghost?”

  Holmes laughed once, then shook his head. “No, no, Madame. I am no exorcist. Who told you this?”

  “Christine Daaé.”

  Holmes frowned. “She told you I was an exorcist?”

  “Well, she said that you were hired to get rid of the Ghost and that you agreed only an exorcist could make a ghost go away.”

  “No, Madame, you suffer from a misapprehension. I have only been employed to look into the matter of the Opera Ghost. The managers have...”

  “Managers–hah! They are not managers. They are–clowns, nothing but clowns! They could not manage boiling an egg. Now their predecessors, Messieurs Debienne and Poligny, they were real managers. We were all one great happy family. Every month I would leave the envelope for the Ghost with his twenty thousand francs, and the Ghost left me a tip of two hundred francs. I can tell you truthfully that every month I thanked the good Lord for that sum. A better, a more generous ghost never lived! I will not have you hounding him, Monsieur! All he wants is his paltry twenty thousand francs and his own box. The view from Box Five is one of the best, and I know he watches every performance. What harm is there in any of this, can you tell me that?”

  “None, Madame, none whatsoever. Calm yourself. I have been employed by the managers, but that does not make me their tool. I hope to return your Ghost to his box and you to your employment.”

  Madame Giry’s color had gradually returned to normal. “You do?”

  “I do, Madame. I shall not be dictated to by the managers. If the Ghost is a good honest ghost...”

  “He is, Monsieur–he is.”

  “Then he need not fear me, I promise you.”

  She gave a tremendous sigh, her huge bosom rising, then falling. “Oh, that is such a relief, Monsieur, such a great relief.”

  Holmes had sat on the wooden chair near the writing desk. He placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “You seem to know the Ghost quite well, Madame Giry. Had you been box keeper for long?”

  “Since the day we opened in ’75.”

  “Ah, so you have known the Ghost since then?”

  “Yes. He appeared during the first season. That was when we began reserving Box Five and paying him for his good influence.”

  “And the managers were not skeptical?”

  “Perhaps at first, but he convinced them.”

  “How did he convince them?”

  “It has been so many years... Some odd things began to happen, but once they listened to him, things returned to normal.”

  “Odd things, you say? Do you mean accidents?”

  “Accidents–yes, that is the very thing! A set c
ollapsed, props would disappear, and then a weight nearly hit Madame Sponelli when she was doing Norma. That is what really convinced them. Of course, the Ghost would never have really injured Madame Sponelli. He only wished to frighten the managers.”

  “I see. However, what of Joseph Buquet? I hear that...”

  Madame Giry’s neck seemed to swell again, the scarlet color returning. “Ce cochon, that great fat greasy pig! Do you know what he did to Meg, to my daughter Meg?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “He tried to seduce her! Can you believe that? This ugly old goat was always trying to seduce the young girls. It is one thing to be seduced by a fine young gentleman, but an old pig like him... He offered to pay my Meg a hundred francs. A hundred francs! Can you believe such a sum?”

  Holmes shook his head. “Outrageous.”

  “If the Ghost killed Buquet–and I am not convinced he did–then he did all the girls of the Opera a service. My Meg is in the corps de ballet, did I tell you that?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “Some day she will be a great dancer, and...” She broke off her sentence, then glanced warily at me. “The Ghost has predicted great things for her, Monsieur Holmes, great things. I cannot reveal the details, but she will be rich and famous, I can tell you that much. Some day hotel managers will beg for her business and for mine, if God should grant that I live to see the great day.”

  Holmes nodded. “I do not doubt it, Madame Giry, I do not doubt it.”

  She eyed him closely, but his whole attitude was so forthright, so respectful, that she gave another great sigh. “Oh, Monsieur Holmes, it is such a relief to me to know that you mean the Ghost no harm.”

  “Again, if he is an honest ghost–as I am sure he is after speaking with you–then I can promise you he need not fear Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Oh, thank you, Monsieur Holmes. Thank you!”

  “I may wish to ask you a few questions another time, but this morning I have another engagement.”

  “Then I shan’t trouble you no more.”

  She stood up, and Holmes and I rose as well.

  “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Madame. You have been most helpful, and it is good for me to know that a person so knowledgeable of the Opera Ghost is readily at hand. I shall call upon you soon.”