Finally! This one has been an absolute beast. I fell down a lot of rabbit holes looking up transatlantic steamship routes and schedules, and vintage maps of Paris, and descriptions of Montmartre during La Belle Époque, and and and. And there's so much more I ended up leaving out, or this one would never be done. Enjoy. Reviews are food for new chapters, and every chapter is a whole story, so I'd dearly love to hear from you about each one.

As always, thank you for your feedback and support, and thank you everyone at Shaftesbury for building such a meticulously crafted and compelling universe.

Chapter 4: Perplexities of the Pyramids

July 7, 1905, Station House No. 4 bullpen, 8:30am

"It's your lucky day, lads! Another column from that happy-dafty at the Telegraph," Brackenreid announced as he strolled out of his office, waving the morning edition. "Who wants to do the honours today?" He looked around at each of the men, and finally his stare settled on the one reclining at Crabtree's desk. "Watts! How about you? Read us the next thrilling instalment from the good Doctor Verbiage, won't you?"

Watts glanced up at the inspector, realising that the older man's directive was not a request. He pulled his feet down off the desk and accepted the newspaper thrust at him. "Very well. I… suppose I can read it this time. What's the topic?"

"'Perplexities of the Pyramids,' it says here. Dratted shame Crabtree's not here for this one—although I suppose if he were, we'd never hear the end of it."

"Pyramids," mused Watts. "Quite a favourite of the constable, if I recall."

"He wrote a whole damn book about Egypt." Brackenreid shook his head. "Now what's he got to say today?"

"George said these columns weren't his, sir," Higgins piped up.

"We all say a lot of things, Bugalugs," Brackenreid quipped, and swatted Watts's shoulder with the back of his hand. "What have we?"

Watts cleared his throat, and began to read.

It seems impossible that an empty desert could hide one of the world's greatest secrets. Yet in this wasteland stands a wondrous enigma: the Great Pyramids of Ancient Egypt. Some call them tombs. Others say they were beacons to an ancient space man, while still others believe they are generators of energy. The secret of the pyramids has eluded men for thousands of years: if they were merely tombs for the pharaohs, why has no mummy ever been found in one? We do know that the ancients built great temples to the forces they believed ruled their lives after death. In sacred places, near the pyramids, Egyptians prepared the most important of their citizens for a journey into life everlasting. No other ancient civilisation lavished as much genius on defeating time. On defeating death. Is it possible the Egyptians succeeded?[i]

Watts paused, and skimmed the rest of the column. The men looked at him expectantly.

"This piece can't even commit to being utter poppycock," he remarked, and dropped the paper on the desk.

Murdoch spoke, startling those who hadn't noticed he had emerged from his office. "I can't say as I disagree, Detective. There are some quite preposterous theories contained in what you have read so far, yet they are expressed in such a way that the author might deny putting them forth at all."

"I must agree with you there as well, Detective. And I dare say, this wishy-washiness is what leads me to disagree with the inspector's theory that these columns are the work of our absent… constable," Watts intoned.

"How's that, sir?" Henry was confused.

Murdoch inclined his head very slightly. "Perhaps you're right, Watts. George does tend to be rather… committed to his flights of fancy. This author is most equivocal."

"This author suggests some truly astonishing things, while providing no… evidence." Watts cleared his throat and looked back at the paper. "For… instance, he mentions one theory that the pyramids represent something called Earth Base One, a 'remnant of the colonisation of Earth by extraterrestrials.'"

Murdoch's eyebrows rose. "You don't say."

"And another holds that they comprise a mammoth radio beacon, or a collector of some secret energy source."

The older detective reached for the paper, and rolled his eyes. "Ancient Egypt is quite fascinating enough without any need for such outlandish speculation. Why, merely the processes involved in mummification have been the subject of scientific inquiry for quite some time now. And Howard Carter discovered the tomb of Tuthmose IV only two years ago, and James Quibell discovered that of Yuya and Tjuyu just this past winter, with their sarcophagi and most of the wall paintings intact! And as for the pyramids, I am far more interested in scientific investigation into the engineering required to construct them than in any wild conjecture such as those contained here…" He trailed off as his eyes caught and skimmed the rest of the column. "Aliens… cutting the stone… with tightly focused beams of light." Murdoch stared off into the distance for a moment.

"A wonder you didn't think of that, me ol' mucker!" Brackenreid needled him.

Murdoch, oblivious to the gibe, was lost in thought. "I suppose it's possible to focus light of sufficient intensity into a beam capable of cutting material of a certain hardness…"

"Like in school, when we stole a magnifying glass from science class and Thompson burned a hole in the fence trying to fry an ant?" asked Henry.

Murdoch tilted his head. "I… suppose so, Henry."

Brackenreid shook his head, and took the paper from Murdoch's hand. "Back to work, the lot of you! Someone's got to make up for Crabtree while he's on holiday." He glanced at his pocket watch, and muttered as he headed back into his office. "He must be to New York by now. Lucky sod."

July 9, 1905, Room 261, Second Cabin berths, S.S. St. Louis[ii]

Eastbound to Cherbourg via Plymouth

George lay unclothed in the bottom berth of Nina's cabin, his limbs entangled with hers, and listened to her sleep as he pondered the past few days and nights. He was so accustomed to his routine in Toronto that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be on a journey anywhere other than around Ontario. His last big trip out of Canada was four years before, back to Newfoundland, but that adventure had involved travel with the detective on matters of interest to the Constabulary, and comfortable though he felt around William Murdoch, on this voyage he could be far less reserved (and for now, wear far less clothing, at least in between games of chess).

This time, the journey had begun on a ferry, traversing Lake Ontario and depositing them in Rochester to catch the train to New York. They had had only a few short hours in that city before it was time to board the steamship, and before he knew it, they were on the open sea. For the next few weeks, Constable George Crabtree was free of obligations to anyone but the woman he loved.

And how he was loving her: with great and enthusiastic vigour, at least half a dozen times since they had left port a day and a half ago, and the promise of many times more before they docked in Plymouth and finally Cherbourg. He recalled the inspector's words, that the city of Paris would transform Nina into a tiger, and he was a little frightened. If this was what things were like merely on the way there, he was not sure he could survive even more passionate attentions in Gay Paree itself. But good Lord, what a way to go.

He was still amused by the dismay his presence had caused for the oleaginous Monsieur Masson, the booking agent and impresario who had arranged the stint at the Moulin Rouge for the girls from the Star Room. Monsieur Masson was accompanying them on the voyage. In their room during the wee hours of their first night on the ocean, George and Nina were enjoying each other's company when someone began knocking at their door. A man with a strong French accent whispered loudly for Miss Bloom. George, fearing some sort of emergency, snatched the sheet from the top bunk and wrapped himself in it before he opened the door, to be greeted by a portly middle-aged Frenchman who looked most astonished to see him.

Nina, also clad in no more than a sheet, appeared at his side and spoke in rapid French. George watched as a very complicated series of expressions crossed the visitor's face in an instant, from surprise, to leering desire, to disappointment, to simmering anger. All of these quickly disappeared to be replaced by what George suspected was the man's usual mien, an ingratiating veneer of smug politeness. He could understand nothing of what Nina was saying, and so stood watching in fascination as she finished, blinked sweetly at their speechless caller, and closed and locked the door.

Nina made her way back to the bed, and George continued to stare. Finally he broke the silence as she settled back in.

"Nina?"

"Yes, George?" She blinked coquettishly.

"What was that all about?"

She turned down the covers, patted the narrow bunk next to herself, and chuckled. "Ah, Monsieur Masson."

"Monsieur… Masson."

"Yes, George. He is the patron of our group that's putting on the show in Paris. I was wondering when he would finally find us."

George stood open-mouthed. "What?" he nearly squeaked.

"He just confirmed my suspicion that he was expecting to… keep considerably more company with me on the voyage than I'm prepared to allow. I suppose he must have been quite cross not to find me in the berth he had chosen for me, near all the other girls."

George paused as her implication sank in. "Was… was he here… to lie with you?"

"He paid for single berths for all of us in the show, just down the hall from his. He would never say so directly, but the presumption that he could visit any of us at his leisure—and pleasure—in exchange for a spot at the Moulin Rouge was clear."

"But… but when you invited me you said you had a double berth!" George's eyes were wide.

"Yes, I had already traded in Monsieur Masson's single ticket for a double one for us."

"Before you asked me?" he nearly choked.

"I knew you would come," she said simply.

"Am I that predictable, then? And what would you have done had I said no?"

"You and I both know I am more than capable of looking after myself. But you didn't say no, did you? And I invited you along because I very much enjoy your company. And, as I said, I would like a constable along to keep me safe. The thieves and cutthroats you mentioned frequent more than just Paris. Those from our side of the ocean need a way to get there." She smiled, and beckoned him with her eyes.

"But will he still allow you to perform?"

"Of course! I'm the biggest draw at the Star Room." To many others it might have sounded like bragging, but George knew it was the truth. "And I'm the centre of most of the numbers in our show he wants us to perform at the Moulin Rouge. All of us girls have agreed that if he won't let one of us perform, none of us will. He certainly can't replace me, and he'll not want to waste what he's invested in bringing all of us overseas."

"Well, I suppose…" George was briefly relieved before another thought struck him. "But what about the cost? You must have paid a small fortune for the extra accommodation! And will the monsieur insist on being reimbursed for his share?"

"I told you not to worry about the cost, George. I have been fortunate to entertain gentlemen who asked nothing of me but to dance and converse, in return for generous sums. My means are not a matter for your concern."

George was taken aback. Nina is a very modern woman indeed. "I, I, I…"

"Hush, George, I won't hear it."

George shook his head in disbelief as he drew the sheet off himself and tossed it back onto the upper berth. He climbed back in with Nina, and lay flat on his back as she nestled her head into his chest. "Why, ah, thank you, then. I, I, I suppose I'm honoured." He was going to have to think about this.

"George Crabtree. I am most gratified that you are a modern man, not the sort who would refuse such an offer out of a misplaced sense of the supposedly 'proper' roles of men and women."

He blushed a little, and gave his crooked half-smile. "Well how else am I to travel to Paris?" he joked. He was going to be thinking for some time about the proprieties and implications of being a man supported by a woman of independent means. He supposed if it was acceptable to Detective Murdoch...

"I just have one worry," he continued. "I, I'm almost afraid to ask, but: will the monsieur be of any trouble? Should I have brought my nightstick?"

She wrapped her arm around him and drew him close, then traced a fingernail slowly down the middle of his chest and abdomen before she slipped a hand farther south and gently gripped him. "No, George, the nightstick you have with you is more than enough to deter him."

"Nina!" George giggled. Toronto the Good's George would have been a mite scandalised by the quip, but George of the Open Seas found it hilarious. He felt something loosen in his chest, or perhaps his gut. Inspector Brackenreid and Detective Watts were wise men, insisting he go on this trip.

July 11, 1905, First Class dining saloon, S.S. St. Louis

Eastbound to Cherbourg via Plymouth

"I hardly recognize you with your clothing on," George murmured quietly enough that only Nina could hear him. She giggled. The two sat across from each other at one of the smallest tables in the dining saloon—it sat only six, and they were joined by four pleasant older travellers, two sisters and their husbands, on their way to visit family outside London. Their new friends were engaging conversationalists, full of remarkably entertaining anecdotes and yarns about their travels and their grandchildren and the books and art and theatre they enjoyed.

George and Nina had made the mistake a few days before of sitting at the largest table, which sat eighteen, and quite an disagreeable cast of characters had awaited them there. One or two were personable and friendly, but most were… not. Neither George nor Nina wished to risk the further tedious company of the portly, self-important Belgian toff who sat at the head as if holding court, and rambled interminably about his family's company in King Leopold's private colony, the Congo Free State. Nor did they have any interest in watching while the toff's rather dim wife, younger than he by several decades, tittered endlessly at his unfunny jokes about his men beating the Congolese locals into submission—or even to death—to hasten deliveries of ivory and rubber to the international markets. George decided quickly that the rest of those at the massive table were hangers-on and sycophants angling for scraps from the Belgian's oft-mentioned (but never demonstrated) largesse. If these people are indeed so successful, why are they in second cabin and not first? George had no further wish to be anywhere near any of them, and Nina had agreed with alacrity to take the rest of their meals elsewhere.

George was grateful that neither of the older couples had seemed the least bit shocked by a Mister Crabtree travelling with (and so clearly enamoured of) a Miss Bloom. If they were, they were certainly too polite to say so. Perhaps their far-reaching voyages had inured them to such a mundane little scandal as an unwed couple travelling together, he hoped. Whatever their view, the Gibsons and the Gladstones made for excellent company.

Today's lunch was, as usual, quite a feast. George read aloud from the menu: curried lamb, stewed rump steak, button onions, roast jacket potatoes, cold roast beef and ox tongue, pickled pigs' feet, tomato salad, and a coconut custard tart, as well as cheese, crackers, biscuits, coffee, and tea.[iii] Over the meal, the conversation turned to what Nina and George planned to see in Paris.

"Well I should very much like to see the Notre-Dame cathedral," George enthused. "I've heard tell that there are ghosts there! And the catacombs. My goodness, the catacombs. Six million souls buried there! I can hardly fathom it. And, and, and of course the Egyptian artefacts at the Louvre. I have quite a fascination with ancient Egypt, you know! And I understand that the inks from the J. Herbin"—he pronounced it "HUR-bin"—"company are simply matchless. I should very much like to acquire a bottle or two, and some of their sealing wax..."

"For your nice pen," Nina affirmed, and smiled indulgently as she took his hand. He inclined his head toward her. "And I should like to see Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower."

"Well I thought that would go without saying!" exclaimed George.

"It does seem rather de rigeur, doesn't it," she agreed. "And we will be staying near the Moulin Rouge, and so I hope to spend time exploring the neighbourhood around Montmartre."

"And you said you also wanted to stroll along the Champs-Élysées from the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde," George reminded her.

"Of course! And I should also like to see the Grand Palais along the way—I've heard tell that the architecture and decoration are simply stunning. And the art galleries and museums! The work of the painters who have been causing such a stir for the past few years! Manet, and Ingres…"

George rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and sighed. "I suppose I shall have to tolerate a few art galleries, though I can't see myself appreciating them. I fear I, I, I'm not bright enough," he said, and laughed.

"Nonsense, George, your eye is just untrained," Nina reassured him. "There's quite a lot I can explain. I'm sure you'll enjoy them."

George shrugged, and, slightly uncomfortable, turned the conversation back to Paris itself. "Now Mister and Mrs. Gibson, you mentioned you have travelled around—what did you call it? The Île-de-France? What would you recommend we see? I've heard tell that the streets on the Île-St.-Louis are quite lovely…"

July 14, 1905, Hôtel des Arts, 5 rue Tholoze, 18ième arrondissement, Paris

It had been a long journey—the longest he had ever taken—and George was eager to deposit their belongings at the hotel and take a nap in a bed on solid ground. He never felt completely at ease around Nina's fellow dancers, largely because they took so much joy in mercilessly teasing him. Not to mention, Monsieur Masson was positively frosty toward him. He preferred to be alone with Nina.

The group's travel on the train from Cherbourg had been a bit of an ordeal, not to mention that on the diligence coach from the train station to the hotel. George thought it to be perhaps the most terrifying vehicle he had ever had the misfortune on which to ride. Their entire party, eight women along with Monsieur Masson and himself, as well as all of their luggage, were loaded into and on top of the massive conveyance that looked like the awkward bastard child of a stagecoach and an omnibus. George and Nina found themselves perched upon the upper deck, gripping the rails next to their seats for dear life, watching the four small, stout horses straining to pull their heavy load through the muggy streets.[iv]

As they neared the hotel, chosen because of its proximity to the Moulin Rouge, George and Nina drank in the neighbourhood, trying to take it all in. The cobblestone streets were as steep as any in St. John's, lined by lampposts and trees. The great Basilica of Sacre-Cœur, still under construction, loomed large over everything. Most of the buildings were three to four storeys high, with brightly coloured awnings and painted facades as high as the first floor, with white outer walls punctuated with white shutters above. There were artists everywhere, painting the city or portraits of whoever was sitting in front of them, hawking their finished canvasses, adding wild splashes of colour and energy to an already vibrant web of streets.

As they checked into their hotel, George found himself wishing, not for the first time nor the last, that spoken French would make even the slightest bit of sense to him. From what he could tell, Nina was negotiating with the clerk, fluttering her eyelashes at him and subtly biting her lower lip. He felt a hot stab of jealousy. What is she doing?

It was as if she heard him: she shot a quick glance his way that was knowing and reassuring and amused all at once. Don't worry, George. You will be the one in bed with me tonight.

How could she tell me all that with her eyes? Yet I understood.

She turned her attention back to the clerk, and uttered yet more that George could not understand. The clerk, giving her a lascivious look up and down and winking knowingly at George, put away the key he was ready to hand her, and retrieved another from the rack on the wall.

"Merci bien, Monsieur," Nina said prettily as she accepted the new key, and swept away from the desk, taking George's arm and steering him toward the corridor, the porter following them. I suppose that's all right, then, thought George as they made their way toward their room.

Nina opened the door to reveal a chamber furnished in a style that she later characterised as "Bohemian." None of the furnishings or richly coloured textiles matched, and the walls were covered with murals so bright and strange to George's eye that he worried briefly if they were the result of vandalism. Given the number of artists they had seen hawking their wares on the street outside, though, he supposed it was more likely than not that the hotel owner had given his blessing to this arresting décor.

Nina was beaming as the porter steered the trunks into the corner. George had never seen her so happy, and he had to admit his own smile might start to make his cheeks hurt. This was to be their home for at least the next two weeks. One of the greatest cities in the world lay right outside the window, and here he was to share and explore it with his luminous sweetheart. He thought his heart might burst.

July 15, 1905, Montmartre, 18ième arrondissement, Paris

George and Nina had spent the morning wandering around the Montmartre neighbourhood, George needing some time to collect himself after a rather tense encounter with Monsieur Masson in the hotel hallway. George was less enamoured of the hotel than he had been the previous evening: the occupants of ten different rooms all shared a single water closet and bath, and their own room lacked a proper washbasin, let alone a sink. There would likely be more chance meetings with Nina's patron, and George did not relish the prospect at all. Perhaps they would look for a different hotel once the shows at the Moulin Rouge were done.

Montmartre was not at all what George had expected of Paris. From the moment he had agreed to come, he had been working out an elaborate mental picture of the city: sparkling lights everywhere, gleaming white façades on charming old buildings, smoldering and fashionably dressed coquettes on every corner, teeming hordes of wealthy tourists clustered around the base of the omnipresent Eiffel Tower as glittering bateaux glided by on the Seine.

Instead, he now found himself in what, truth be told, he found rather a grubby, rundown neighbourhood, full of ramshackle buildings with sagging roofs and crooked shutters, populated largely by labourers and artists of means that were modest at best. But for the steep streets, the giant basilica on the top of the hill, and the constant buzz of a language he could not understand, he might have imagined himself in a particularly troublesome neighbourhood of Toronto.

Nina, on the other hand, was most entranced by the area, particularly the odd collection of people moving about the cluster of streets near their hotel. The courtyard of the hotel itself was full of painters at work on their canvases, and Nina was quite smitten by some of their work. She was especially taken by a work for sale on the sidewalk outside, on the Boulevard de Rochechouart near the Cirque Medrano. George hadn't a clue what she was chatting about with the artist; while they conversed, he studied the work that had caught his sweetheart's eye. It was a pair of long, solemn-faced figures in Harlequin suits against a rose-tinged background. George neither understood nor liked it.

George heard a few words he recognized: numbers. It dawned on him that Nina was negotiating a price. He touched her arm and beckoned her toward him.

"Nina, you're not going to buy that, are you?" he said quietly.

"Now George, I find it most captivating. Something in the expression of the subject on the left quite speaks to me."

"How on Earth would you get it home, though? It would likely get crushed in your trunk. And what would you do with it? It seems to me the sort of thing whose appeal is quite limited. I'm sure you'd tire of it within a week."

Nina glanced over at him, and rolled her eyes a little. She lost herself in thought for a moment, and finally appeared to come to a decision. She spoke to the painter again, and he shrugged, clearly losing interest in her as he turned to away to court another potential patron.

"What did you tell him?" George asked.

"I don't have space for it, which is true. A shame, really. I quite like his work. Monsieur… Picasso, I believe he said it was."

"'Picasso.' That doesn't sound French."

"His accent sounded Spanish."

George stared at her, incredulous. "You can recognise a Spanish accent when someone is speaking French?"

She tilted her head impishly at him, and smiled. "I can indeed. You still have much about me to learn, Monsieur George Crabtree.

George grinned in spite of himself. "You are undeniably a woman of mystery and intrigue, Mademoiselle Nina Bloom."

"I dare say I am," she replied, and winked. George was more besotted than ever.

George was eager to head toward the centre of the city, but Nina wanted to climb to the top of the hill and see the basilica. George, seeing the slope, was reluctant, but Nina finally managed to convince him by pointing out that the view would be spectacular.

It was a terribly long climb, and more than once on the way up he felt a twinge of resentment as the funicular rumbled past. What had he been thinking, saying the stairs were quite all right? By the fifth flight he was slightly light-headed, and by the fifteenth he thought he might never catch his breath again. He sat down heavily at the top, almost too winded to notice that Nina seemed hardly any worse for wear as she sat down right in front of him, and he rested his head upon his knees until he could come back to himself.

Once he did, he found himself spellbound by the scene around him. The basilica itself, despite the scaffolding on the front, was stunning, quite unlike any church or cathedral he had ever seen. The top featured tall, elongated domes, resembling the photographs he had seen of the Capitol building in Washington. Most unusual. He wondered what it looked like inside.

And the city before them! George felt the hair on his arms rise as he stared out at the city of Paris. Paris. I, George Crabtree, am staring out at Paris. He wrapped his arms around Nina, and kissed the top of her head. "I can hardly believe it," he breathed.

"Nor can I, George. We are actually here." She turned and beamed at him, and he leaned over and brought his lips to hers. She reciprocated for a moment, and then rose suddenly to her feet. "George. Over here." She inclined her head to the left and lowered her eyes seductively. He sprang to his feet without hesitation, and soon they were tucked into a narrow alcove between buildings, kissing so passionately, running their hands so quickly and desperately over each other, that had George been a constable passing such a couple in Toronto he would have arrested them. Yes, definitely a tiger, Inspector, George thought briefly before Nina's hand found its way to his trousers and started to inch its way inside. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he did everything he could to stifle a moan.

"Nina!" he hissed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm enjoying Paris, mon cheri. And I hope you are too." Her hand reached its goal. George wondered if he might die, right there in front of God and everyone. Yet he could utter no protest as she kissed him again, and gripped harder. Ooh la la, indeed.

The rest of the day consisted of wandering about the village and getting to know some of the odd collection of people who frequented the streets. They stumbled upon a small canteen, Chez Père Azon in the ramshackle Bateau-Lavoir building, and had their lunch. Nina feasted on a salad of fresh tomatoes, anchovies, artichokes, black olives, red peppers, and hardboiled eggs drizzled in olive oil and vinegar with a hint of mustard and herbs. A salade Niçoise, the waiter had called it. George himself tucked in to a simple sandwich of cured ham and slices of butter on a segment of a long, narrow, crusty loaf of bread. He learned that the sandwich itself was a jambon-beurre, and the bread was a baguette. Together, they made for the best ham sandwich of his life. Watts and the inspector had both told him the food in Paris was second to none, and he was quite thrilled to experience it for himself.

As they partook of their midday meal, Nina pointed out a rather uncommon sight: one man appeared to be settling his bill by offering a painting to the proprietor. George caught only a glimpse of the work, a seaside scene with a pink river and a yellow sky, and rather crudely depicted buildings and boats. Once again, the appeal of art quite escaped him. A child might have painted that! he thought, and yet the proprietor accepted it with alacrity. Very odd. I do not understand these Parisians.[v]

They settled their bill—George insisted on paying—and left the dilapidated space to stroll more about the town. Nina once again was the first to notice a man they later learned was one of the area's stalwarts: a Monsieur Constant Daléchamps, proprietor of a massive collection of… well, George wasn't quite sure, exactly.[vi] The man wore a floppy hat and a large, unruly beard. He stood smoking his pipe before a storefront adorned to well above street level with a wild assortment of framed and unframed pictures, children's dresses, porcelain knickknacks, metal signs, paper fans, handbags, postcards, china plates, sculpted busts—and was that a rifle? Good heavens. George had never seen such a large hodgepodge of oddments for sale. Several small children played in front of the chaotic display, apparently oblivious to its strangeness.

The bearded man withdrew his pipe from his mouth long enough to say a few words in greeting. Nina replied, and he gestured them inside, tipping his hat. Nina looked at George. "Why not?" he shrugged, and followed her in.

The shop's interior was overwhelming. Given the eclectic collection of everything in front, George supposed he should not have been surprised by what lay behind its door: from floor to ceiling there were arrayed countless items of bric-a-brac, and artefacts, and detritus from perhaps dozens if not hundreds of homes, likely collected at estate sales and flea markets and who knew where else. He and Nina stood for quite some time, open-mouthed as they regarded the immense collection of… things.

"This is rather a peculiar place, George."

"You don't say," George returned, his eyes wide.

"He told me he is the le Premier Ministre de la Mort—the Prime Minister of Death."

George's eyes grew even wider, and after a moment an excited grin spread across his face. "I dare say that would make quite a rousing title for a novel! The Prime Minister of Death." As he spoke, his eye alit on an assortment of fountain pens, and his grin grew even wider. "Look, Nina! Speaking of writing: pens!" His enthusiasm was contagious, and soon he and Nina were engrossed in a discussion of which of the pens felt most comfortable in the hand.

Quite some time later, the two left the shop, George the excited new owner of a beautiful ebony number from the Kaweco pen company in Germany, and Nina the bearer of a new handbag containing a few accessories for her costumes back home at the Star Room. She was still slightly unsettled by another strange man, this one lurking at the back of the shop, apparently stationed there to guard the large collection of jewellery that was for sale. When he heard that she was one of the troupe recently arrived from Toronto to perform at the Moulin Rouge, he pressed her on whether she was in the Egyptian-themed number he had heard about. When she replied that yes, she was, he laughed and regarded her most expectantly. He appeared quite disappointed when she and George departed.

"What was that all about? With, with that man? He looked rather… well, rather creepy, if you don't mind my saying so." George was always concerned when other men showed interest in his sweetheart.

"I've no idea," replied Nina. "It seemed like he was waiting for me to say something, or ask for something."

"Well, I've no idea either, but I, I, I certainly had a bad feeling about it."

"Never mind that, George. You know I'm here with you. My big strong constable to keep me safe." She smiled, and ran a lace-gloved finger down his cheek. He pulled her close to him, and kissed her deeply.

"Indeed I am. Now what would you like to do for the rest of the afternoon? You need to be at the theatre by seven o'clock to rehearse, do you not?" She nodded in agreement as he pulled out his pocket watch. "My goodness! It's gotten late. We certainly won't have enough time to get into the city and back today."

"Don't look so crestfallen," she teased. "There's plenty to see here. I should like to visit L'Élysée Montmartre Theatre—perhaps we could catch the girls there practicing the Can-Can. Or we could look at some of the artistic work hanging there. I understand they have quite a few by Toulouse-Lautrec."

George looked skyward. "More paintings, I suppose."

"Well, this is quite the city for it." She looked fondly up at him. "And I hear the political discussions at the theatre are most stimulating."

"All right, all right. I did wish to visit the Eiffel Tower on our first full day in Paris, but I suppose you are here to work. And at least I, I, I can console myself with my new pen." He chuckled. "Although I do need that Herbin ink."

"Don't worry, George, we shall make sure you procure some. To the theatre now, and then an early supper? I'm excited for you to watch me tonight!"

July 15, 1905, Le Moulin Rouge, 11:45pm

George stood with the rest of the crowd, whistling and shouting as the curtain fell. It had been a spectacular performance. Though the girls had been practising for weeks, he had never seen the full number in costume before, and it was breathtaking. It was quite a different style of dance from what he was used to at the Star Room: less striptease, more athleticism, but oddly somehow more alluring. Something about the cabaret, rather than burlesque, lent the movement and the atmosphere an almost otherworldly quality. George wondered if there existed a planet somewhere out there dedicated solely to pleasure. If so, it would certainly be full of establishments such as this.

And the setting! The Star Room could be an enticing space in the right light, especially after a drink or two, but this? This was in an entirely different league. To George, the venue practically oozed luxury. Nearly everything was red: red velvet drapes around the stage and on the walls, red tablecloths, red-tinted lanterns on each table, red carpeting, plush red upholstery on the chairs. Light from the candle in the middle of the tables sparkled through glasses of wine. Long, serpentine railings wound between sections. Coloured spotlights shone through the thick haze of pungent French cigarette smoke to strike the most elaborately decorated sets, painted with details so exact they looked almost like photographs. The overall effect was stunning, and left George nearly breathless.

He was well refreshed, full of champagne from several bottles shared around his table by an extravagant young man who was most impressed that George had arrived with Nina. The room was packed with wealthy, elegantly dressed Parisians (clearly not from the neighbourhood), as well as a few locals, evident by their somewhat less riche attire. Nina stood in the centre of the dancers, beaming as she and the others basked in the thunderous applause. The first night onstage in Paris for the girls from the Star Room was a roaring success. George could not recall the last time he had been so happy.

July 16, 1905, Rue de Richelieu, Paris, 8:30am

Finally, the day had come: George would see the sights of Paris up close, with his very own eyes. He was nearly giddy with excitement, and Nina radiated eager anticipation as well. They were both surprised not to feel as awful as they had feared, given the free flow of champagne the night before, and they managed to depart the hotel by eight o'clock. They breakfasted on croissants and black coffee at a small café before they began their walk south to their first stop, the Louvre.

It was a hot, clear day, and Nina seemed to wish a slower pace than George. He was quite keen to reach the department of Egyptian antiquities—as part of his research for The Curse of the Lost Pharaohs, he had studied catalogues of artefacts held there, and his steps quickened along with his heartbeat every time he thought of another piece he particularly wanted to examine in person. Nina, on the other hand, was acting very much the flâneur, strolling along at a leisurely rate, wandering down side streets here and there, drinking deeply of l'ésprit de Paris as they made their way downtown.

Nina seemed to sense George's quiet agitation as she peered down yet another narrow alleyway. She turned to him, and smiled. "You're not enthused about exploring at the moment, are you?"

He smiled back shyly, a tad embarrassed at being caught out, and shook his head. "I confess I am not."

"Where would you rather be?"

"I, I, I, well, at the Louvre, of course."

"Well, we will get there…"

George pressed his lips together. "I know that, Nina, I should just like to get there sooner rather than later, if it's all the same to you."

A flash of irritation crossed Nina's face. "Whatever is the rush, George?"

He sighed. "It's the Louvre, Nina! It's the one of the greatest collections of Egyptian antiquities in the world! Had I not mentioned I wrote an entire book about the artefacts of ancient Egypt?"

"You wrote a novel about them, George. A fantasy story about curses and mummies and Queen Victoria." He glowered at her before she continued. "But I take your point. And I suppose I should like to see some of the paintings hanging there."

George brightened a little before the full meaning of Nina's statement dawned on him: more paintings. Oh, dear. Perhaps she can look at those while I remain in ancient Egypt…?

"Paintings, then?" he said, forcing a smile. "If you would really like to see them, I should certainly not mind spending time on my own in the Department of Egyptian Antiquities…"

"Oh, no, George! I am most interested in the art of ancient Egypt! I studied quite a lot about it in school. I had hoped you would accompany me to the galleries when we were done with the Egyptians!" She reached into her handbag, rather a larger one than George had seen her carry before, and withdrew a book that resembled a brick in both size and shape. "Look, I brought a copy of Mary Knight Potter's The Art of the Louvre! There's a whole history of the palace, and descriptions of the contents of at least thirty of the rooms!"

"A history of the palace, then? I suppose that might be intriguing, at least. I, I, I just find myself quite unable to grasp the appeal of painting..."

Nina strode in front of him, turned to face him, and stopped him in his tracks. "Now, George. Don't be ridiculous. You are a very bright man indeed—you just haven't been educated on this particular topic."

"I, I, I

"Think about it, George." She took his hands and gazed up at him. "You are a writer, n'est-ce pas?" He nodded, a little confused, and she continued. "Now with writing. Think back to the first time you saw words on a page. You can't remember the moment, can you?" He shook his head. "And would you have been able to read them at that very instant?"

"Of course not. I had to learn. Someone had to teach me."

"Bien sûr, George. And with books? You cannot know what you like, what is good, what moves you, until you learn how to read."

"I suppose not. But were we not talking about art?"

"We were, George! And I shall bring this back to art, in time. Now. Wouldn't you agree that the more time one spends with the written word, the more one learns to appreciate its power, and the craft and artistry of the person who put the words down the page?"

George inclined his head as he considered her argument. "I… I suppose so..."

"But first you have to learn the letters, and then the words. And you, George Crabtree, have given words so much time and attention that you now use them yourself as tools to paint pictures in your readers' minds."

George blinked a few times as her point became clear. "Oh! And so you're saying I, I just need to spend more time with art?"

"With the works themselves, and a good teacher, as well."

One side of his mouth started to rise, and he chuckled. "And I suppose you're offering."

She smiled. "Anything for my favourite constable. I want you to love the art as much as I do, and I certainly did have to earn my eye for it. But now I can teach you!"

By now, George was grinning widely. "Very well, then! I suppose this makes me your student now, as well as your lover"—he wrapped his arms around her, and drew her in for a kiss—"and faithful companion." He kissed her again, more deeply this time, and reveled in feeling no compunction whatsoever about doing so in the middle in the sidewalk, in the middle of the day. Well, I can still appreciate Paris, and Nina, even if I don't learn to appreciate the art.

Richelieu Pavilion, Louvre Museum, 9:15am

Once again, George was finding himself slightly vexed by his and Nina's differing approaches to sightseeing. He was most eager to make his way with all haste to the Egypt department, and here was Nina strolling through a seemingly endless gallery of French sculpture at a snail's pace, pausing to study and admire each piece. By the time she stopped in front of the twelfth example of a white marble bust of some haughty-looking fellow staring down his nose, George was nearly out of patience.

He swallowed. "Nina."

She turned to him, her eyes full of enthusiasm about the artworks in front of them. "Yes, George?"

"Nina, I, I, I'm glad you're enjoying these busts, but perhaps we could… oh, I don't know, perhaps we could pick up the pace? This is the largest museum in the world, and we do have quite a lot to see…"

Nina looked faintly annoyed. "I suppose, George, but I do enjoy drinking it all in."

"Might we… drink it in a bit more quickly?" he asked, trying—and failing—to conceal his impatience.

She finally looked up at him, and saw his pained expression. "Oh, George. You're keen to get to the Egyptian rooms, aren't you?"

He blushed a little, and nodded. "I dare say I am. As you know, Egypt is rather a particular interest of mine, and…" He stopped at her look of amused exasperation, and the left corner of his mouth went up as his guard came down. He blurted, "Not to put too fine a point on it, Nina, but I'm about as eager as a young lad on Christmas morning." He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet for emphasis.

She gave him her real, heart-melting smile now. "All right, I suppose we can make our way directly to the Egypt rooms. We can come back here Do you know how to get there?"

He reached into his pocket for the map of the museum, and found nothing. He shook his head in surprise. "Where's the map?"

"I couldn't say, George. Didn't you have it at the entrance?"

"I did, and I was quite certain that I put it in this pocket." He rummaged through all of his pockets, just in case, but there was no sign of it. "Drat!" he muttered.

"Well, we shall just have to ask someone to direct us," Nina soothed him, and looked around the room. "I do know the department has to be to our right, as that's where most of the museum is." She waited for his arm; he offered it, and they headed further into the labyrinthine buildings.

Denon Wing, Louvre Museum, 9:45am

"Nina?"

"Yes, George?"

"I do believe we're lost, Nina."

"Yes, I would say quite hopelessly so. It's a shame that everyone we seem to have run into so far speaks neither French nor English."

"Indeed! I confess I'm surprised to hear so many other languages here. German, Spanish… I think that gentleman near the Venus de Milo might have been a Russian. Or maybe Latvian? Lithuanian? I confess my knowledge of the Eastern European languages is somewhat lacking…" The two were climbing a flight of stairs, both unsure whether doing so would bring them any closer to their goal, when they rounded a corner and Nina interrupted George with a gasp.

"Winged Victory!" she exclaimed. "George, it's Nike of Samothrace! Oh, my goodness, there she is! Right there in front of us!"

George looked at what so fascinated his sweetheart, and saw a winged figure of a headless woman towering before them, mounted atop a massive decorative pedestal. She looked familiar: George thought he had seen her in photographs.

"She's… she's very… large…" George ventured.

"She's stunning! Look at the way the fabric drapes across her body! It looks positively translucent. And the confidence in her stride! The musculature of her abdomen! The way her weight is balanced!" Nina's eyes were wide with excitement.

"Where are her arms?" George wondered aloud. "Where's her head?"

"Oh, those were lost centuries ago," Nina told him. "But look at her even as she is! She's magnificent!"

George inclined his head slightly and regarded the enormous figure, perplexed. "I, I, I admit she's rather impressive, but I can't say as I quite understand why one would get so excited about a human figure that has been, well, decapitated and maimed."

Nina shot him a dirty look. "George! She's nearly two thousand years old. I'm just happy we have this much of her to see!"

"I suppose…" he trailed off.

"George, this is the work of an immensely gifted sculptor. Look at the way he conveys a sense that she's leaning into the wind, like a woman standing on the prow of a ship. The way the fabric wraps around and billows behind her."

"Well, now that you mention it, I had thought of a ship as well..."

"Good! And what else does she look like to you?"

"I, I, I… uh. You did say she looks confident. I suppose I can agree with that."

"And how do you know she's confident?"

"Ah, her stance?" George rubbed his chin.

"Exactly! If she were standing with her feet together, the effect would be very different, would it not? And think about her name, George."

"'Winged Victory.' So she was to commemorate a triumph of some sort?"

"Yes, George. She's Nike, the Greek goddess of victory.'

"Oh! I suppose that makes sense." He brightened, starting to understand. "And since she's a goddess, why shouldn't she have wings?"

"Of course! The sculptor used his artistic licence to add wings suggesting divinity. I believe you're starting to get it, George!"

Once again, her smile dazzled him. Perhaps I can learn about art, at least enough to please Nina, he thought, and grinned.

"She is Greek, is she not?" he asked, and Nina nodded. "Well, perhaps we are on the right track. Greece is not far from Egypt." Nina smiled, and swatted his arm with her fan.

"You and your Egypt," she teased.

"B-b-but Egypt, Nina! I feel as if we've already walked all the way to the Nile today. Now where could those galleries be?"

"May I be of help?" an unfamiliar voice enquired kindly.

Sully Pavilion, Louvre Museum, 10:00am

George, Nina, and their helpful new companion stood at the door of the Department of Egyptian Antiquities. George's heart was pounding in his ears as he worked himself up to step over the threshold and into the rooms. He had dreamed of this moment since he was the young boy in Newfoundland who had stumbled across the copy of Amelia Edwards' A Thousand Miles up the Nile that someone had donated to the local library. He lost count of how many times he had checked it out, and by the time he was ready to move back to Toronto at 16, the book was so well-worn it was hard to believe it had ever been new. The librarian had sent it with him as a parting gift, and it was one of his most treasured possessions. Now here he stood, on the cusp of seeing some of the artefacts described in that volume, and he wondered if his heart might leap from his chest.

Monsieur Chatelain gestured him inside. "Venez, venez, mon ami!" George drew a deep breath, and steeled himself before he stepped into the first room.

George was going to be pondering the fastidious, eccentric Monsieur Chatelain for some time. The couple's initial encounter with him had been most fortuitous: he was walking past when they were admiring the Winged Victory, and overheard them lamenting their difficulty in finding the Egyptian galleries. He had told them he was on his way there, in his unusually accented but flawless English, and invited them to accompany him.

He struck George as an odd little gentleman, rather short and slight of build, impeccably dressed in a pearl grey suit with a bright orange ascot held in place by a small, vivid blue pin in the shape of a scarab beetle. Round, wire-rimmed glasses rested on his oval face, and his salt-and-pepper hair was parted exactly in the middle and pomaded down to within an inch of its life. George noticed that the hand resting on the head of Anubis, topping an ornately decorated walking stick, was freshly manicured. Uncommon to see that sort of grooming on a man, he thought curiously.

The couple chatted with him as they walked together, and he enquired politely as to their interest in Egypt. George spoke enthusiastically of his long interest in the ancient kingdoms, and really got going as he described his book and all the research he had done for it, much to the amusement of their prim companion. Nina, on the other hand, elicited a sharp intake of breath when she mentioned that she would be performing in an Egyptian-themed cabaret show at the Moulin Rouge: the gentleman paled a little, and immediately turned back to George, asking him with great enthusiasm about his thoughts on Egyptian curses.

George had no idea what to make of the dapper little gentleman. His attire conveyed style and likely wealth, while his accoutrements indicated a strong interest in Egypt. George could not quite place the accent—it sounded mostly French, but not quite. He was so taken by the man's clear interest in his book, his research, and his theories that he did not notice the look on Nina's face until they had almost arrived at their destination.

"Venez, venez, mon ami!" Their guide gestured grandly.

Nina's expression was unreadable. George thought he could detect amusement, perhaps, and maybe a hint of jealousy? He was not sure. Both he and Nina had grown quite accustomed to her being the centre of attention from French men (and, for that matter, Canadian ones) everywhere they went, and neither of them knew what to make of a man who showered attention on George instead.

George shrugged at his sweetheart, and looked back at the man waving him into the exhibit he had waited decades to see. He decided he needed another moment to collect himself before he went in, and their guide had been most gracious. His aunts had raised him to be polite. "Ah, before we go in, I, I, I'm afraid I didn't catch your name, my good fellow. I'm George Crabtree, and my lovely companion here is Miss Nina Bloom."

Their guide broke into an enormous grin as he shook George's hand vigorously. "George Crabtree. I shall call you… 'Crabe-arbre.' I consider myself most fortunate to make your acquaintance, Monsieur le Crabe-arbre." He shot a passing glance back at Nina. "Et bonjour, Mademoiselle Bloom." She lifted her hand as well, and although he was polite, George saw that he looked a little resigned as he gave her glove a perfunctory kiss.

"And your name, sir?" George prodded. The man was beaming at him again. Yes, Nina looked simultaneously irked and entertained. He was going to hear about this.

"Moi? I am Abélard Chatelain." Looking at George, he said, "Please, call me 'Abélard.'"

George's eyes grew huge, and he was starting to speak when Nina broke in. "Chatelain! Oh, how amusing! The two of you would seem to have something in common besides your love of Egypt!"

Both men raised their eyebrows. "How so, Nina?" George asked, surprised.

"Chatelain means 'constable'! Monsieur Chatelain, my dear George here is a police constable back home in Toronto."

"Un policier! Mon Dieu!" M. Chatelain reached into a pocket and pulled out an elegant linen handkerchief, which he used to fan himself. He was smiling more broadly than ever, and he reached out to pat George's shoulder. "Well, I shall of course have to give you a very special tour of the department, then!"

George experienced a frisson of intrigue tinged with alarm. He opened and closed his mouth a few times like a fish, but found himself quite speechless. Nina, sensing his discomfort, stepped in, took his elbow, and addressed the Frenchman with every bit of her charm.

"That's very gracious of you, Monsieur Chatelain. May I ask how you are so familiar with the collection?"

"He's the curator of the entire department, Nina," George squeaked. "He runs the place."

"Oh!" said Nina, and her eyes grew round as George's as the trio stepped into the first room.

Jardin des Tuileries, 5:10pm

"My feet hurt," George lamented.

Nina grimaced. "As do mine, George. I'm not sure they'll ever forgive me for walking so far in uncomfortable shoes. I've no idea how I am to dance tonight."

They were sitting on a bench in the enormous, picturesque gardens to the west end of the Louvre, on the site of the former Tuileries Palace. George's relief at sitting down was indescribable. His constable duties meant he did a lot of walking in Toronto, but today's travels seemed at least a dozen miles farther than any stroll he'd ever taken back home. Nina was leaning against him, her feet elevated onto the end of the bench, and both her ankles were showing, though no one passing by seemed to care.

"Monsieur Chatelain must have shown us every artefact in the department," she continued.

"At least those that were on display," George agreed. "Apparently the holdings number more than seven thousand."

Nina's eyes widened. "Oh, my. I am very fond of you, George Crabtree, but the prospect of watching that little man present seven thousand relics to you is most daunting. We would be here for weeks!"

"If not months," George agreed. "And truth be told, I was finding his nearness rather… unnerving. I confess I'm unused to having anyone I hardly know stay so very… close to me. Things are indeed different here in France."

Nina choked back a laugh. "It's not just France, George. It's Monsieur Chatelain. He quite likes you. Almost as much as I do."

Now George's eyes grew huge. "You think he… likes me likes me? As in, fancies me?"

"Wasn't it obvious, George? That's how men act toward me all the time, at least when I don't have you along. And sometimes even then."

George sat back, astonished, as the day's interactions with his new friend Abélard were suddenly cast in a new light. "Oh. Oh, my. Good gracious. Well I can't say as I'm not flattered, but… he's a man, and I'm with you, and, and, and… didn't he say he was married?"

Nina was trying not to smirk. "Well, George, you and I both know the French have rather a different conception of marriage from the one most common in our corner of the world…"

"But…" George hardly knew where to begin.

"Shh, George! He's right over there!" George's surprised expression turned to one of apprehension as the dapper gentleman advanced toward them, bearing a wicker hamper.

"Maybe he's just on his way home. Maybe he won't see us." George pulled down the brim of his hat and shrank into the bench, hopeful that Monsieur Abélard Chatelain would simply breeze past on his way to somewhere else.

"Monsieur le Crabe-arbre! Mon ami! I just knew I would find you here!" Chatelain cried with delight as he approached.

"No such luck, then," George muttered as the Frenchman bustled toward them and, without warning, leaned over to kiss George on both cheeks.

George sat shocked as Nina giggled. "My dear George! I thought you must be quite hungry after your long day of looking at all my treasures," Chatelain enthused, and gestured toward the hamper.

"Why, yes, we are," Nina replied, swinging her feet off George's lap and draping her arm around him possessively as she gave him a peck on the cheek. "We were just having a little rest before we started to look for some supper." George shifted uncomfortably, and wrapped his own arm around Nina.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Chatelain. "I've brought you a lovely repast from the museum's café. The chef is a particularly dear friend of mine. When I told him of the marvellous Monsieur le Crabe-arbre and his deep love of l'Egypte ancienne he was most excited to prepare a basket of spécialités françaises for you!" As he spoke, he opened the lid and pulled out a red and white checked blanket, which he spread across the grass and topped with a wooden board and knife. He began to lay out what looked to be quite a delicious meal indeed: baguettes, and various cheeses and pâtés, and a salad of green beans, and a very large sandwich apparently made from an entire loaf of bread, cut in half and stuffed with colourful fillings. Are those olives? I quite like olives, thought George. He also noticed a bottle of wine—a very fine one indeed, if Detective Watts had taught him anything—and two glasses. Only two? And I don't suppose he imagines he'll be the one to go without. Oh dear.

George shot a slightly panicked look at Nina, and she winked back as she drew herself up. "Oh, Monsieur Chatelain, how wonderfully gracious of you to think of us! And after your great generosity in giving us both such a wonderful experience in your galleries! My goodness, the two of us can't thank you enough. And I'm so glad that you were able to find us: we do have a number of questions for you that we weren't able to ask when you were giving us such erudite, detailed explanations of the artefacts. George and I were agreeing that we are most interested in the provenance of the articles in the museum's collections. I believe you mentioned that the first person to hold the position of curator of the department was none other than Jean-François Champollion. I believe I recognise the name. He was the Egyptologist who decoded the Rosetta Stone in 1822. I recall that his work is the reason that Egyptian hieroglyphics can be read, is it not?"

Chatelain, a little surprised, replied, "Oui, that was our Monsieur Champollion." He then turned back to George as if to speak, but Nina continued undaunted. "And Monsieur Champollion opened the department a mere four years later! And you said he assembled the first collection of Egyptian artefacts from items that were confiscated from royalty?"

Chatelain finally looked at her, somewhat grudgingly. "Yes, and from collections purchased privately, as well."

She gave him one of her most radiant smiles. "And what tremendous work you've done since to ensure that as wide a variety of them are on display, so they can be properly appreciated! We are so very impressed, aren't we, George?"

George swallowed and nodded silently, his eyes wide as he watched Nina deploy the full extent of her charm. "Now Monsieur Chatelain—do you mind if I call you Abélard as well?" she asked, not waiting for a response. "Abélard. Such a lovely name, befitting such a handsome man." He flushed slightly at the compliment, just as Nina had intended. Perhaps she would win him over after all. "Now, Abélard. One would imagine such objects as the ones you handle would be in great demand by, shall we say, unscrupulous collectors. Now you simply must tell us if you have ever encountered anyone so… nefarious?" She leaned in eagerly for his reply.

George was, not for the first time, glad that Nina almost always chose to use her truly impressive charisma for good, not evil. "Why, yes, Abélard, we are both quite curious! Being that I'm a constable and all…"

"And a very good one, too," added Nina, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

The prim Frenchman rolled his eyes a little, and picked up the wine to open it. He looked around furtively before he beckoned them onto the blanket and opened the wine. Once they were settled, he spoke in a most conspiratorial tone. "Well, I suppose I could tell you about the recent shipment of jewels and relics that vanished en route pour Paris…"

"No!" exclaimed George, his interest piqued instantly as Abélard handed him a full glass. "Really? Do tell!" he pressed, as he handed the glass to Nina.

Chatelain shrugged, and looked sadly at George for half a moment, finally seeming to accept that the object of his affection was quite spoken for. He took a breath, and looked around again. "Alors, I could say nothing within the museum, but just one month ago…"

He launched into quite a tale as he sliced the giant sandwich (which, he explained, was a pan bagnat, quite popular in the Provence region) and they all tucked in. Apparently KV 46, an ancient tomb from the New Kingdom, had just been opened in the Valley of the Kings. The tomb was the final resting place of Yuya and Tjuyu, the parents of one of Egypt's queens. It had lain undisturbed since being looted a few times in antiquity, and the thieves had missed some truly elegant pieces, including the couple's golden funerary masks. The masks, a collection of alabaster canopic jars, wooden models of boats, and an extensive array of jewellery had been packed into crates destined for the Louvre, and the département had expected their arrival a month ago. Repeated efforts to trace the shipment had turned up nothing.

George was riveted. "Well, perhaps I could help!" he broke in.

Abélard laughed, not unkindly. "Ah, mon Crabe-arbre! C'est pas necessaire. We have gendarmes of our own sur l'affaire. 'On the case,' you would say."

"But do they have any leads? Who have they spoken with? Did they talk to the people who packed the crates, and the customs inspectors at the points of transit? On what route were they shipped? Was anyone travelling with them?"

"George! George!" Abélard raised both hands in surrender, and smiled. "I say too much already. No one outside the museum and the expedition to the Valley was to know of this. Should these pieces come on the market, it is impératif that no one know of the theft, so we can deny that the artefacts are real. No one will buy what they believe to be faux. Fake."

"Still, I, I, I could be of help to the investigation! I mean, to take part in the rescue of such priceless artefacts from dastardly, selfish thieves…"

Nina pulled him toward herself, and broke off his words with a kiss. "Oh, my sweet George. We are here in Paris to see the sights, and for me to dance. Isn't this the first real time you've taken away from the Constabulary since you started there?"

George's face darkened. Apart from the five months in jail… he thought bitterly. But we needn't discuss that. "I suppose it is," he said with forced bonhomie. "Perhaps I could leave the solving of crimes to those best equipped to do it here. But—"

"I'm so glad to hear you say so, George," Nina broke in. "I dare say you'd find it quite challenging, not speaking the local language…"

"But you could translate for me—" he began, and stopped as soon as he saw the look on her face. "Orrr, I suppose I could enjoy my holiday." She smiled in approval, and Abélard chuckled.

"Now I know which of you porte le pantalon," he teased. "I suppose I've no chance to steal your heart, then, mon cher Crabe-arbre?"

George grinned nervously, and gripped Nina's hand. "I, I, I'm afraid I'm quite spoken for, Monsieur Chatelain."

"'Tis a pity," the Frenchman sighed. "I'm sure my wife would take to Nina as much as I have to you."

George's eyebrows rose skyward, and he realized after a moment that his mouth was hanging open. No, he had no idea what to make of the French, particularly not this one. Good gracious Lord.

"Abélard," Nina said brightly. "Perhaps you'd like to hear about George's theory regarding the construction of the great pyramids!"

Rue de Richelieu, 6:45pm

George, unsure whether his feet would ever recover, was most relieved to be making the trip back to Montmartre in a fiacre. (He would have called it a hackney cab, but then, he was not French.) Abélard had been most reluctant to let them depart, but Nina had a rehearsal, and George made polite excuses as well, feeling rather safer in her company than he did in Abélard's.

"He didn't seem to think much of your ideas about the pyramids, did he?" giggled Nina.

"Well all I meant was that their scale is such that it would have been well nigh impossible for humans to build them, especially thousands of years ago."

"Yes, but… aliens, George?"

"Yes, Nina, aliens! Perhaps they constructed the pyramids as giant radio beacons, or as sources of energy!"

"He seemed particularly amused by that idea," Nina teased.

"Pyramid energy, though! Why, I, I, I've heard tell that the energy generated by pyramids can sharpen razor blades, and preserve organic material!"

"Preserve… organic material," Nina repeated, and regarded him sceptically.

"Well what other explanation do you have for the mummies?"

Nina burst into peals of laughter. "Oh, George Crabtree, I am so very fond of you."

George looked around sheepishly. "I was about to say you were sounding like Detective Murdoch. But he never says anything like that."

She leaned in and kissed him. "I tend to agree with Abélard. You saw the sophistication in the artefacts he showed us today, did you not? I believe that suggests that the Egyptian civilisation was sufficiently advanced to have constructed the pyramids without outside assistance."

George pouted. "Yes, but how?"

"I've no idea, George. But our not knowing does not mean it was impossible."

George practised his Gallic shrug, and Nina giggled. "You've been watching Abélard, haven't you?"

"Perhaps I have," George told her, and grinned. "And your Monsieur Masson."

Nina recoiled slightly at the mention of the man. "My Monsieur Masson?" She looked at him askance. "He is hardly mine, George. Nor I his."

George flinched. Oops. "I, I, I'm sorry, Nina. I didn't mean…"

Her expression softened. "I know, George."

George's tongue was loosened by the wine. "Truth be told, my dear Nina, I have come to quite loathe that man! The liberties he feels free to take with the other girls, and the… the smugness!"

She choked on a laugh. "You noticed that, did you?"

"Good Lord, Nina, what a thoroughly detestable individual he is! He, he, he…"

"You just don't like seeing him leer at me, do you?" She was smiling widely at him.

He reddened. "No. No, I don't. And I shudder to imagine his conduct toward you on the ship had I not been along."

Now she executed the perfect Gallic shrug. That's very good, thought George, and raised his eyebrows approvingly. Very French. He was getting ready to tease her when her next words stopped him cold: "You do remember that when you're not with me, I carry a knife."

He sat back. He had never thought about it before, even though he had seen her wield it. "Good heavens, Nina. I, I should hardly know what to say."

"I am a realist, George. I know my willingness to seek pleasure, to be a wilfully single woman who enjoys entertaining men, is not without risk. I am quite accustomed to men the likes of François Masson. Men who feel entitled to take what they wish, whether or not it is on offer."

George bristled as he considered her words. "He is certainly no gentleman. I don't like him. He's not to be trusted. I'm glad you brought me." He rubbed his chin. "But what about the rest of the girls? Who is protecting them?"

"We protect each other, George."

"You do? How?"

"In several ways. We have signals for when someone is paying unwanted attention or taking unwelcome liberties, for one. Do you remember that night at the Star Room when one of the girls dropped a tray of drinks on Edwin Douglas's head? Did you really think that was accidental?"

"Oh!" said George. "Oh, my. Well, he is a vile man." A smile curled at the corner of his mouth. "And you said… several ways?"

"Yes. We all agreed that Monsieur Masson would furnish us our train and steamship tickets for the return journey before we ever left Toronto, pay our entire hotel bills before the first night's stay, and provide our full wages before each show, or he would find himself with not a single one of us to put onstage."

George's smile grew wide. "Good gracious, Nina. I'm travelling with a small horde of trade unionists!"

Nina almost snorted. "I suppose that does describe us, yes!"

"All for one and one for all, then. So if I cross you, I'd best watch out for your entire troupe."

She laughed mischievously. "Indeed. We are a formidable lot."

July 28, 1905, Moulin Rouge, sometime after midnight

George could hardly believe how quickly two weeks in Paris had gone. He thought they might have seen every inch of the city in their time there, through nearly every arrondissement (and they had been very naughty indeed in at least half a dozen of those). He had started a running count of the number of different modes of transportation they had used since arriving in France. So far it was seven: the train from Cherbourg, the Métro, the diligence coaches, les fiacres, bicycles, the moving sidewalks along the Seine near the Eiffel Tower, and their own four feet.

Nina had continued to encourage him to appreciate the art all around them, especially in Montmartre, and he was starting to come around to her way of thinking about sculpture, and paint on canvas. There were even a few paintings in the galleries and cafés around their hotel that George thought he wouldn't having on a wall at home. Nina's patient tutelage was paying off.

After tonight, the Star Room girls had only one more performance at the Moulin Rouge. The atmosphere backstage was festive, and a little giddy. Tonight had been the best performance so far of their new Egyptian-themed number, choreographed by Nina, and it brought down the house. The champagne was once again flowing freely, and a number of the girls were toying with the attentions of several very handsome—and clearly wealthy—young men. Charlotte in particular was quite enamoured of a gentleman who wore what looked for all the world like a diamond-studded pin in his ascot, and diamond cufflinks.

George had watched every show of the run, even though Nina had assured him he was never obliged to do so. She had even encouraged him to explore Parisian nightlife beyond the four walls of the Moulin Rouge while she was at work, but he would hear none of it. He was in Paris with Nina, and near her he would remain. He would certainly not have minded seeing the revue at the Folies Bergère (he had heard tell that the late performances there featured full nudity!), but he saw how the other men in the crowd looked at his sweetheart every time she was onstage, and, well, no. He was not leaving the cabaret even a second before she did each night. If he wanted to see a beautiful woman dance nude, he need only ask his own sweetheart. And after tomorrow night, the two of them would have two more weeks to themselves before they climbed back aboard the train to Cherbourg.

The last bottle of champagne drained, George and Nina were heading out the door when Lily, one of the Star Room troupe, appeared next to Nina and tugged at her sleeve to direct her back inside. George found Lily's expression most curious. Lily was an excitable sort, and she appeared to be struggling not to blurt out whatever it was that she wished to tell Nina. Instead, she whispered in her ear. Nina paused, blanched a little, and followed her, assuring George she would return shortly.

She was gone some time, to George's rising irritation. She finally returned, still slightly pale. She gave him a nervous, excited smile, and pulled him briskly toward the door.

"What was that all about?"

"Not now, George." Her words were quiet but insistent. "The girls are right behind us."

Sure enough, the couple was followed out of the building almost immediately by the rest of the girls and the smarmy Monsieur Masson bursting forth onto the cobblestone street. Spirits were high, and the crowd was merry. George would clearly not hear of whatever was worrying Nina until they were back at the hotel.

That night, as on so many others, he good-naturedly endured relentless teasing from the other dancers as they all made their way to their beds. He often thought they regarded him as the troupe mascot. On this evening they ribbed him mostly about what he and Nina had been doing at every opportunity, and they made increasingly loud—and in some cases, he thought, quite anatomically impossible—suggestions for positions and venues for their lovemaking. George was quite astonished that they even knew such words, let alone were willing to speak them aloud. Were we in Toronto, I'd arrest the lot of us for public indecency, he thought, and chuckled. He was blushing so brightly he thought he might illuminate the street. Who knew women could be so ribald? Well, I suppose they themselves did. I don't recall the Flower Girls of Flower Hill being quite so… uh… uninhibited, though... but perhaps they were on their best behaviour around the house's child?

Hôtel des Arts, 1:30am

George's teeth and face were clean. Clad in his dressing gown, he returned to his and Nina's room with a spring in his step. He knew that when he entered, he would find his beautiful sweetheart awaiting him, very likely en dishabille, ready to engage in the sort of behaviour that the other Star Room girls had just described in such lascivious and entertaining detail. He grinned broadly in anticipation, and opened the door.

He was surprised by what greeted him. Nina was still in her corset (very well, then, I can just help her out of it, he thought gallantly), and she was wearing—what was she wearing? A collar? A necklace? It appeared Egyptian, and it certainly didn't look like anything he'd seen on her before. She leaned toward him eagerly, and extended an arm, which bore a bracelet. "Look at these, George!"

George felt a little wind go out of his sails. He supposed he could look at them briefly to be polite, but there was something else he was quite keen to attend to at the moment…

"Take it off me, George," Nina told him, and gestured to the collar. Now those were words he wanted to hear. He opened the closure at the back of the large piece, and lifted it off her neck.

The first thing to strike him about it was its heft: this was clearly not brass-plated tin. It depicted a large falcon whose outstretched wings swept up and back over the wearer's shoulders to meet at the nape of her neck. The falcon's talons gripped two objects that George recognized as ankhs, and its head, turned in profile, bore a round red disc on top. He turned the piece over a few times. "Horus," he murmured. "God of kingship and the sky."

"I thought you'd be intrigued," she said knowingly, and pointed at the delicately patterned wings, inlaid with stones of many different colours.

George was so astounded by the craftsmanship evident in the piece that he was entirely sidetracked from his goal. He pressed the end of his toothbrush into the back of one wing, and withdrew it to reveal a small dent. His heart skipped a few beats. "Nina, this is gold! And these stones! Look! I, I, I believe that row is carnelian, and lapis lazuli this one here…"

Nina pointed at another row and said, "And that one looks to me like turquoise." She took the collar back, and handed him the second piece. "And I dare say these stones around the scarab beetle on this wristband are emeralds."

He was finding it difficult to catch his breath. "Nina, these look genuine!"

"I know, George—that's why I wanted you to see them."

"Well if they're genuine, then why on Earth were you wearing them?" he asked, horrified and thrilled all at once.

"It was the only way I could get anything out of the cabaret. I snuck them out under my street clothes." She was excited, and curious, and mischievous all at once.

"Well where did they come from? Nina, where did you get these?" He was becoming lightheaded.

"Lily found them in the dressing room. Monsieur Masson promised something special for tomorrow night's performance, and curiosity got the better of her."

George could not stop staring at the collar, and wondering: Why are there stones missing, if this is recently made?

All at once it hit him.

Holy heart of Mary. The theft from the Louvre.

He was thunderstruck. "Nina," he whispered, and met her thrilled, slightly terrified eyes. She nodded slowly.

The hair on George's arms rose. He stared up at her, his face etched with disbelief. "Do you mean… are we to think… could these be actual artefacts of ancient Egypt, brought forth from the tombs recently opened near the Nile? From, from, from Yuya, and Tjuyu? Are these the ones stolen from the Louvre?" His hands started to shake.

Nina's eyes twinkled. "I was almost hoping you wouldn't agree with me."

George shook his head. "No. No. I, I, I… it can't be true. Paris is a magical city indeed, but it is completely implausible that… no. These cannot be the genuine article. Why would they be in the costume trunk for performers at a cabaret? It, it, it just isn't possible that I could be holding something two thousand years old. No." He shook his head again, more vigorously this time.

"Well, you see, that's just it, George. They weren't in the costume trunks, they were in a separate crate labelled only with Monsieur Masson's name and the address of the Moulin Rouge. All the costume trunks that came from Toronto were labelled for Cherbourg and then the Gare St-Lazare, and then we brought them with us to Montmartre on the diligence coach. And the crate of jewellery arrived only today."

He sat for a moment, dazed. His head was still floating away on champagne. "Well, ah, perhaps the crate was opened by mistake?"

"By mistake? But why would Monsieur Masson have taken delivery of such a priceless cargo at a cabaret, of all places?"

"You said we were just here to see the sights and dance…" George muttered.

"Yes, George, but…"

"I know, I know. This is far too much to ignore." George thought with some effort while his head continued to buzz. Oddly, the answer came to him far more quickly than it would had he been sober. "Oh!" he exclaimed, and slapped his forehead. "He's a smuggler! And, and, and the Moulin Rouge is a stop on a route for smuggling artefacts overseas. To New York, most likely!"

Nina's eyes lit up. "Of course! And who but the intrepid Constable George Crabtree to investigate, and heroically dismantle the nefarious ring and put the wrongdoers behind bars! I knew it was a good idea to bring you!" She rose from the bed, and pulled him toward her, kissing him so passionately his knees nearly buckled.

"Nina!" He was sorely tempted to let her continue, but what if these artefacts were real? "Nina, we must take these to an expert! Monsieur Chatelain needs to see them!"

She kissed him again, and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Now, George? It's nearly two o'clock in the morning. Will they be missed right now? And I should hardly think the Egyptologists of Paris are awake at this hour, eager to authenticate artefacts found in a nightclub in Montmartre, of all places. And now you know what I do, and I dare say you did have a plan for this evening…" She ran her fingernails across his chest, and he inhaled sharply.

"I… I suppose you're right." His voice was husky as Nina's hand found its way into his trousers, and he felt her fingernails dig gently into his skin.

Perhaps he was not to be thwarted in his initial goal after all. His breath hitched as her grip tightened.

Yes. The authentication could wait.

July 29, 1905, Department of Egyptian Antiquities, Louvre Museum, 8:55am

George and Nina were waiting at the museum entrance when Monsieur Chatelain arrived for the morning, and he was clearly delighted to see them. "Monsieur le Crabe-arbre et Mademoiselle Floraison! George! Nina! How wonderful to see you again!" he enthused, greeting each of them with kisses on both cheeks.

George glimpsed Nina preening at the acknowledgement, clearly pleased that her efforts to win him over had borne fruit. "Monsieur Chatelain! Abélard! Bonjour!" George greeted him nervously, and reached out for a handshake. He was still quite unsure about the easy physical intimacy of the French.

"What brings you back to me today? I am so happy you are here!" the impeccably groomed Frenchman asked earnestly, still gripping George's hand.

George inclined his head and lowered his voice. "Abélard, perhaps it is best if we all speak somewhere private."

Abélard's eyes grew round as saucers, and the smile of the cat who had eaten the canary crept across his face. "Of course, mes amis. Come with me," he said eagerly, and bustled away toward his office, stopping every few paces to make sure they were right behind him.

Oh dear, thought George. He doesn't think…

"Oh! I had hoped you would return!" Abélard gushed as he swept them into his office. He closed the door and beckoned them to a chaise longue, clapping his hands together and looking as if he might burst with excitement.

Nina glanced over at George, and he gave her a nod. Best to disillusion him as soon as possible, poor chap. Nina and her petticoats rustled to Abélard's side, and she spoke to him quietly to him in French for a moment. George was almost saddened to see the man deflate.

"Désolé, Abélard," he told him. Sorry, and he genuinely was, finding himself eager to assuage Abélard's disappointment. "But we have something else that I believe will be of very great interest to you. Nina?"

She turned her back to George, and he began unbuttoning her high-necked blouse. He glanced over at Abélard to see an expression of utter bewilderment. George coughed on a laugh. "Now Abélard, I, ah, oh dear. Perhaps the messages we are sending are somewhat… mixed. I shouldn't wish you to think that… well, ah, I think that when you see what we've to show you it will all make sense. At least I hope so." He beckoned him over.

"Look, Abélard. Look." George parted Nina's blouse, and the collar was revealed. Abélard inhaled sharply, and fainted. George caught him on the way down.

He awoke very shortly on the chaise, Nina fanning him. "Où est-ce? Où est le col?" he demanded instantly.

"On your desk," George said, and gestured. Abélard sprang to his feet and dashed across the room, the back of his deep purple morning suit flapping out behind him.

"Mon Dieu!" Abélard cried as he donned a pair of white gloves and picked up the collar reverently. "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu. Vous l'avez trouvé! Et le bracelet aussi!" He sighed heavily, and leaned against the desk, his face etched with relief and awe.

"You found it, and the bracelet as well," Nina murmured to George as Abélard continued.

"Comment, mon Crabe-arbre, ma Floraison?" He paused to collect himself, and remember his English. "How? How did these come to you?"

"So they are the real thing, then?" George asked, already knowing the answer, and reeling from its implications. Good Lord.

"Yes, George, yes yes yes they are real." He waved his hand impatiently. "I told you of the recent theft! How do you have them? You must tell me, both of you!" His eyes were positively wild.

"Well, Abélard, last night there was a crate delivered to a Monsieur Masson, our dance troupe's sponsor, at the Moulin Rouge," Nina began. "There was a misunderstanding, and my colleague opened it thinking its contents were for our show, and…"

Chatelain's eyes bulged in disbelief. "And to whom did you say it was addressed?"

Many things had happened very quickly, after Abélard had authenticated the stolen goods. He had said a few words to the security guard, who had promptly hustled all the visitors out of the department and locked the door. Abélard made several telephone calls, often raising his voice in a language neither George nor Nina could understand, but George suspected must be Arabic.

There was a knock, and Abélard opened the door only briefly to admit the Sûreté. Introductions were made. Although Abélard presented George as a member of the Toronto Constabulary, the newly arrived officers regarded him sceptically—he heard them muttering about "les anglais" and glancing over at him—and he could tell that he would be afforded nothing but the most basic professional courtesy. Alas.

His instincts were correct: he and Nina found themselves more or less trapped in the department until the local lads in uniform were satisfied, both with their accounts of how they had come into possession of the antiquities, and with their promise to lead them to the other pilfered treasures (or at least those contained in the accidentally discovered shipment).

Over the next few hours, they were asked to draw from memory as detailed a plan of the Moulin Rouge as they could, and describe all the staff and their roles. A plan was worked out, with a great deal of arguing, about how to secure the stolen goods and apprehend Monsieur Masson. Nina did her best to translate for George, as Abélard was still spending a great deal of time shouting into the telephone in rapid Arabic, and by midafternoon her energy was clearly flagging. Still, though, George was able to gather that Monsieur François Masson, impresario, was also notorious as one Alexandre Chouinard, international smuggler of antiquities, and that there were multiple warrants out for his arrest.

Well then. George had never liked that man. He was looking forward to tonight.

July 30, 1905, Moulin Rouge, 1:45am

Nina and George gripped each other's hands as they stood in the lobby of the Moulin Rouge, waiting. The last show in Paris was done, and after who knows how many champagne toasts, most of the other Star Room girls had departed the cabaret in the company of various well-dressed men.

Apart from Monsieur Masson, Lily, Celeste, and Nina (not to mention George) were the only members of the Star Room entourage left behind. Abélard, too, had departed hastily before the show even started—it appeared he was deeply uncomfortable about being seen in a cabaret. Lily and Nina had been instructed to stay, to give statements about the crate once it was retrieved, and Celeste was steadfast in her refusal to leave without Monsieur Masson. She was his favourite, having spent the greatest amount of time with him since leaving Toronto, and it was clear she relished the role. Of course she had to remain blissfully unaware of what was about to happen the moment her Svengali departed the cabaret bearing a certain crate.

George, Nina, and Lily were doing their best to keep up small talk and minimise any questions about why they had not yet returned to the hotel. George's head was once again humming from champagne, and given the Egyptian theme of the night's show, he found it very easy to launch into an extended explanation of his theories about pyramid power and aliens. Their companions were Canadian, and he relied on their sense that it would be rude to interrupt him or leave.

So far it was working, but Monsieur Masson was certainly taking his time to come out of the cabaret and into the lobby. There had been concern rumbling among the troupe about their host for days: he had become quite distracted, and his attentions toward them had waned. Celeste in particular was upset, thinking she had done something to offend him. Nina looked torn, clearly wishing to reassure her friend, but knowing she could not. There would be time for explanations later.

Even as he talked, George's mind was quite somewhere else. Tonight Monsieur had looked quite ill at ease, and he was even more highly strung than usual. George had watched him intently as the last curtain came down, and saw his eyes constantly darting back and forth toward stage left until he finally bolted toward the cabaret office.

During the show and the following reception, the place was crawling with members of the Sûreté, all trying (and, George suspected, mostly failing) to be inconspicuous in civilian clothes. Now a couple of them were lingering in the lobby, apparently listening to George, while the rest were all stationed outside the various doors of the building. It was only a matter of time before Monsieur Masson collected the crate to remove it from the premises.

The decision had been made to wait until the last possible second before the crate and its precious contents disappeared into the night: by ensuring that Monsieur Masson was the one physically in possession of the stolen goods, the Sûreté would be able to lay much more serious charges, perhaps serious enough that he would be willing to reveal names of others in the smuggling ring in exchange for a bit of clemency.

One of the Sûreté men began speaking in French, and Nina leaned over to George. She whispered in his ear: "I can't stop thinking about that night at the Star Room."

George knew the one. He closed his eyes, only to see Robert Graham, smirking as he held Nina's knife at her throat. He winced at the memory. No time for that now.

He lifted the inside of Nina's wrist to his lips, and felt her racing pulse. "It's all right. Tonight is different," he whispered back, as much to convince himself as her. "The cavalry is already here." Knowing that, however, did little to calm his own butterflies.

The delay started to become nearly unbearable. There was no sign of Masson. Celeste was growing restless, and Lily, aware of the reason for the wait, could not get close enough to Nina and her Constable Crabtree. She was rather a naïve young woman, and she looked so frightened that George started to worry that she would give the game away. He would have to keep talking. Perhaps speculation on the ghosts inhabiting the Catacombs would do.

2:15am

The office door opened, and everyone in the room tensed.

Here it comes. George felt a familiar burst of adrenaline, and he moved protectively in front of Nina. He was no stranger to confrontation, but he certainly did not relish it.

The long-awaited Monsieur Masson—no, Monsieur Chouinard—emerged from the office, and he did not look at all surprised to see the waiting entourage. In fact, he smiled that oily smile that George had seen so many times over the course of the trip. George was contemplating marching up and punching it off his face until he heard a collective gasp.

Chouinard was followed by a smaller man, one George recognised as an employee of the cabaret, carrying the crate. Chouinard himself, still beaming, withdrew a revolver from his jacket and brandished it at the small crowd.

George's heart sank. He had seen very few guns in Paris. So that's how it's going to be, then. Fear stabbed at him as he wondered: Where did he get the gun? Perhaps he purchased it from the Prime Minister of Death…

The next few minutes were a blur. The carefully laid plans had come quite off the rails, and there was a lot of shouting. George's first instinct was to plot a path to the door: he had to get the women outside. He hoped the shouting would alert the officers waiting on the street—Chouinard would clearly not let anyone still in the cabaret anywhere near the exit…

George shot a hard look at Nina, Celeste, and Lily, and then glanced at the doors, hoping they would understand his silent message. Nina squeezed his hand and nodded almost imperceptibly. Bless you, Nina.

The four began inching their way toward the egress, even as they were riveted by the sight of their host shouting incomprehensibly (to George, at least) and holding the room at gunpoint.

Then a word he understood hit him like lightning. "NINA!"

George's blood ran cold as Chouinard strode toward his sweetheart, a satisfied leer on his face. He snatched her by the neck and pointed the gun at her head. "Now I shall finally have you, or you and your boudin"—the French speakers inhaled sharply at what was clearly a grievous insult—"can both die. You will choose. But for now, you are both coming with me."

Nina's eyes were black with terror as Chouinard tightened his arm around her neck and laughed, sneering at the hapless Crabtree. Time itself skidded to a halt, and George was instantly transported back to that terrible night in Toronto. His heart pounded through his entire body as Chouinard's face metamorphosed into that of Robert Graham. No! No! No! Not again!

George looked desperately at Nina, and suddenly another image rose from memory, from a different place and time: a black-clad figure holding a knife to the neck of Margaret Brackenreid. He knew what he had to do.

Hands raised in a gesture of surrender, he stepped tentatively toward Chouinard, as he had been instructed. Then, without warning, George Crabtree lunged. The best right jab of his life landed squarely in the middle of Chouinard's face.

Chouinard shrieked, reeling from the unexpected blow, and George grabbed his arm to bend it sharply away from Nina's throat. Nina—magnificent Nina, knowing exactly what to do—jumped away as George threw a hard kick to Chouinard's solar plexus, just as Wu Chang had shown him. Blood dripped from Chouinard's nose, and he crumpled to the floor. George stomped on the wrist of the hand that held the gun. There was an audible crunch, and a scream, and then a stunned silence.

The door to the street flew open and the Sûreté burst in. Celeste began to wail.

Hôtel des Arts, 5:00pm

"Let me get you some more ice," Nina said softly, and patted the chilly towel wrapping George's aching hand.

He shook his head, and took another bite of the jambon-beurre sandwich they had picked up on the way back to the hotel. "It's all right. I should like to get some sleep."

"I suppose it has been an extraordinarily long day." She yawned.

"I dare say," George replied, a corner of his mouth twitching upward. "So long, we're well into the next one." He yawned as well. "I've no idea whether we should sleep now, or just try to stay up so we'll sleep well tonight."

"Do you think you broke your nose?" Nina murmured.

George blinked. "My nose? When would I have broken my nose?"

Nina laughed. "Not your nose, silly. Your nose."

"Nina." Her laughter was contagious. "What on Earth are you on about?

"Chouinard's nose. You broke it."

"Oh! His nose. Not mine. I suppose I did. It certainly looked like I had."

"Finger!"

"Nina?"

"Did you break your finger. Finger! Not nose." She laughed again, this time with relief at remembering the word."

"I've no idea. I hope not."

They were sitting on the bed in their hotel room, both still fully clothed, George's back to the headboard and his arms wrapped around her as she leaned against him. She was nearly incoherent with fatigue, and he could hardly hold her close enough.

It had indeed been one of the longest days of his life. George's singlehanded apprehension of an armed, notorious smuggler and hostage-taker had embarrassed the Sûreté, and they had made it a point to delay the party from Toronto at the station as long as they could without actually taking them into custody. Nina was exhausted and had refused to translate for George and the other girls, knowing the stakes of a mistranslated word when the police were involved, and so the four of them had waited hours for an interpreter to arrive. Meanwhile Chouinard, clutching his smashed wrist to himself, keened loudly and rocked back and forth in pain, and refused to say a word.

By eight o'clock in the morning, Celeste was vicious, Nina was near tears, and Lily was inconsolable. George feared he himself might come undone at the seams. None of them had slept in 24 hours, nor had they eaten a morsel in nearly twelve. At least someone had finally seen fit to bring water and some glasses. George, though, was finding it hard to handle the pitcher without spilling it, and there were times he found himself quite disoriented. Now and then Nina would doze off on him, only to be awakened by someone in a uniform blathering away at them in French. George was beginning to agree with Brackenreid's unflattering opinion of the locals. He was exhausted and ravenous, and his hand throbbed. He did not wish to become snappish, but his patience had long since worn paper thin.

By ten-thirty, George was entertaining fantasies of arson. Where would be the best place to fling a lit bottle of alcohol to do the most damage, while still leaving a safe path to the door for himself and the girls? He was envisioning the resultant chaos when the door opened and a teal-clad Abélard Chatelain and his entourage swept in. "George! Mon Crabe-arbre! Et Mademoiselle Floraison!" he greeted them excitedly, rushing toward the exhausted pair. After they rose so he could kiss them on both cheeks, he thrust a bag of a dozen warm croissants toward them, and George almost cried. He thought he'd never been more pleased to see someone in his life.

While the four from Toronto wolfed down their breakfast, Abélard argued in French with the Sûreté, and in Arabic with the Egyptian-looking men who had accompanied him. George's eyes glazed over as his mind happily turned to thoughts of a large, fluffy bed, complete with his own beloved pillow (although that would have to wait until he returned to Toronto). He was certain that they would soon be able to leave the station and return to the hotel for some desperately needed sleep.

No such luck was theirs, however. The Sûreté, now that they had an interpreter, were eager to interview the Canadians at great length about exactly what they had seen and when they had seen it, and they asked each question six ways from Sunday. Apparently the odd man at the jewellery display at the Prime Minister of Death's shop was involved somehow, but George could not determine any specifics, and no one would answer his questions, only ask him more.

The various administrative delays and the paperwork added hours to the wait. By the time Abélard bundled George and the three young women into a pair of fiacres back to the hotel, they were so exhausted they could hardly remember their own names. George was grateful that Abélard had told the driver the hotel's address, for he was hardly sure he could have remembered it himself.

So here he finally was, alone with Nina. He drew her even closer to himself, and she gave a small, contented sigh.

"We should sleep," he murmured. She gave a single nod, and sat up to remove her blouse while George took off his shoes. His hand hurt like the Devil.

"Corset?" said Nina.

"You want me to help you out of it?" He very much enjoyed the nightly ritual of undressing her that had started on the ship from New York.

"Mm-hmm," she agreed, and leaned away from his embrace so he could reach the laces.

"All right, I'll try, but no promises." He had become quite adept with removing Nina's corsets over the past three weeks, but the pain and the cold in his knuckles, not to mention the weariness in his bones, made him clumsy. He told her he was going to lie down for a moment to collect himself before he tried again. The next thing he knew, the sun was starting to rise, and Nina was kissing him.

August 12, 1905, Le Havre

Though the rest of the Star Room troupe left for home not long after the end of the show, George and Nina had enjoyed a further twelve days in the City of Light. Abélard and the others in the département at the Louvre had been extravagantly generous to the both of them, after their swift actions had enabled the Sûreté to dismantle the smuggling ring quickly and recover the entire shipment of purloined artefacts. In thanks, they had paid to switch their tickets home so that they could stay longer and have a nicer journey, and installed George and Nina in a suite at the Hôtel du Louvre for the duration of their stay in Paris, to boot.

The extra days had given them the chance to explore even more of the city, its gardens and galleries and monuments and shopping, and Nina had procured enough au courant French clothing and lingerie that they were going home with an extra trunk. The only thorn in George's side about the entire trip (save his sore hand, which was taking some time to heal) was his failure to procure the fabled J. Herbin ink. They had tried four separate pen shops in far-flung corners of the city, only to find each of them closed for all of August. George was appalled by how very many shops of all types were shuttered for the month. How could a country even function if much of it is closed for a whole month of every year? Every time he looked at his new Kaweco pen, he felt a flash of irritation, briefly reliving the aching feet and the great frustration of finding yet another shop shut up tight. He wanted to write with it, and he had been thwarted at every turn. And he had really wanted to try that ink. (Although he supposed that writing with a hand as tender as his was likely not the brightest of ideas…)

Now, they were in a coach to Le Havre, where their ship would depart for London and then Quebec. Abélard and his wife Léonie were riding with them, insistent upon seeing them all the way onboard.

The ride from Paris to Le Havre was bittersweet. Nina and George were both missing home, but they were quite sorry to be leaving what George thought might well be the most beautiful city in the world.

Abélard was his chatty, engaging self, as usual flirting with George, who had learned to take it in stride and even enjoy the attention once he knew it would go no further than words and the occasional bisou on both cheeks. After the dust had settled from the failed heist, he and Nina had spent a great deal of time with the dapper little man and his wife Léonie, who proved to be a handsome, no-nonsense, fiercely bright woman who was indeed quite captivated by Nina. They were impeccable tour guides to far more than just the Louvre, and George and Nina got to see parts of Paris that they suspected relatively few of the locals knew.

Abélard and Léonie were both fascinating people, comfortable and affectionate with each other, but George did not detect a certain spark between them. A marriage of convenience, perhaps? He thought it likely: he had seen such arrangements before. Whatever the couple's relationship, he enjoyed the company of them both. He would miss them.

The coach drew to a stop near the pier, and the driver began to unload the trunks from the rear while George and Nina climbed out for a good look at the ship that would take them home to Canada. Each of them took a deep, satisfying breath of the sea air—for George, the scent always brought back childhood in St. John's. He was flooded by emotions he could not name.

"The S. S. Sardinian," he noted, and chuckled as Abélard and Léonie climbed out behind them. "She's smaller than the St. Louis. I hope this doesn't mean we'll be packed in like tiny fish."

Nina smiled while wrinkling her nose at the thought of the smell. "I should think not, George. Abélard assured me that she's quite a lovely vessel."

"She is indeed," Léonie agreed. "I have travelled on her to London more than once. I am jealous that you will cross the ocean on her."

Cross the ocean. So I suppose this is it, then. George felt a lump in his throat as he regarded their gracious hosts, and fumbled for something to say. "I, I, I find myself curious about the differences between the various steamship lines. The St. Louis is run by the American Line, but she"—he gestured expansively at the ship before them—"is part of the Allan."

"Well, there won't be a real comparison, will there? We were in second cabin on the way here, and we won't be on the way home," Nina told him as she took his arm.

"No, we won't," George agreed, and unconsciously patted the tickets in his jacket pocket. His sadness at the imminent departure was mingled with childlike excitement: Abélard had arranged for them to travel first class.[vii]

The porters were loading the trunks onto carts and wheeling them up the gangway as the two couples said their reluctant goodbyes. Abélard, blotting at his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief, pressed a gift-wrapped package into George's hands.

George was astonished. "Abélard, are you sure? Are you quite sure? I dare say you've already done far more than enough for us already…" he began with a catch in his throat.

"Nonsense! A parting gift. A mere token of our affection. Take it with my compliments. I have it on good authority"—he inclined his head toward Nina—"that you will enjoy it."

George regarded the small, intense man with great fondness. "So I, I, I, I should open it, then," he said tentatively.

"Oui, bien sûr! Go on, open it, mon Crabe-arbre! Open it! Continue, continue!"

George was disarmed and amused by Abélard's zeal. "All right, then, I suppose I will!" He withdrew a pearl-handled pocketknife from inside his jacket, and opened it to cut through the tape on the package. Abélard watched in excitement as George opened a hinged box and nearly jumped with joy when he saw the contents.

"Ink! You found the ink! Look, Nina, it's the Herbin ink! Three bottles of it! Blue, and black, and red! Abélard, how did you find this? We looked everywhere!"

The Frenchman tapped his finger to his lips, and smiled. "I have friends, Monsieur le Crabe-arbre."

"Well thank you!" George's last defences came down, and he took the man in a warm embrace. He felt a bit teary-eyed himself. "Thank you, Abélard, for everything."

"Go. Be gone. I can no longer look at you. You are breaking my heart," Abélard told them mildly, and fanned himself with the handkerchief.

A few more hugs, some tears, and many bisous later, George and Nina stepped off the continent for the last time and made their way onto the ship. They were homeward bound.

August 19, 1905, S. S. Sardinian, Atlantic Ocean, westbound from London toward Quebec

They had already been on the ocean for a week. This ship was bound for Quebec City, not New York, and so their fellow passengers were mostly Canadians heading home to Montreal. Though the journey at sea would take longer, it was a relief not to have Americans along, George thought: he found their sort of bluster, at least that of the rich ones, especially tiresome.

So far George was struck by two things: how different life was for the moneyed classes, and how comfortable Nina seemed in their environs, despite her conscious choice to reject the high society she had come from. When they were alone together, it was easy to forget how unalike their backgrounds were, but here? The dissimilarities were as clear as night and day.

She was so worldly and well-educated, clearly a child of money: sums that were weeks if not months of his pay seemed inconsequential to her as she shopped in the finest boutiques in Paris. And, well, he had never gone hungry, but he was quite accustomed to plain and simple fare, at times in rather meagre quantities when money was scarce. He had never dined in evening dress, either, at least not until he joined the Constabulary and attended the policemen's ball to welcome the new century, and yet here he had been at dinner in white tie and tails every night for a week, rubbing shoulders with the type of people he had read about for years in Madge Merton's society column in the Toronto Daily Star. (Thank the Lord that Abélard and Nina had insisted on purchasing him the appropriate vestments for such occasions.)

He felt quite the fish out of water. Yet he and Nina were popular dinner companions—Nina's intelligence and charm, matched with his curiosity and good humour, served them well in making friends. And though some looked askance at Mister Crabtree and Miss Bloom, Nina was impervious to shame, and if she felt none, why should he feel any? He was proud to be in the company of such a beautiful and brilliant woman as his Nina.

And their accommodations! The stateroom was a lavishly appointed space, at least three times the size of their berth on the voyage over, and it even had a double bed. It was a much more hospitable space for a couple so enamoured of each other. Days went by when dinner was the only time they ventured outside. George grew wistful when he thought of the journey's end.

August 29, 1905, Windsor House Hotel, Toronto, 6:00pm

"It was very kind of you to invite us for dinner on our first full day back," George told Doctor Ogden and Detective Murdoch as they welcomed him and Nina into their suite.

"George, what have we told you? It's William and Julia here." Julia beamed that delighted smile of hers as she took his hat and laid it on the table next to the door. As she gathered him into a hug, he acted on impulse and gave her a quick peck on both cheeks. She giggled. "You have been on the continent, haven't you?" she asked, amused, at exactly the same time William scolded him: "George!"

George blushed slightly, and grinned. "I'm sorry, si—William, we've been on the continent, you know." He winked at Nina and Julia, and turned back toward the detective. "I shouldn't mind if you wish to greet Nina the same way."

William was clearly frightened by the suggestion. "Thank you, George! I'm sure that won't be necessary." Now William was reddening as Nina offered him her hand. He kissed it graciously, but to those who knew him well, his expression betrayed his discomfort. George was amused.

"Come in, come in, both of you," Julia laughed as she gestured them into the sitting room and handed them each a drink. "George, you've been very much missed at the station house. Now you simply must tell us all about your travels!"

They all settled in, and George and Nina hardly knew where to start. After nearly two months away, George was most unsettled at being back in familiar environs, and his head swam a little every time he remembered that he had actually been in Paris. Me! Constable George Crabtree! In Paris!

"Well. As you know, we travelled from New York to Cherbourg on the S. S. St. Louis, but then our plans changed for the return journey, and we arrived three days ago in Quebec City from Le Havre on board the S. S. Sardinian."

"The Sardinian!" William's eyes lit up. "That's the ship that carried Guglielmo Marconi and his equipment to set up the wireless telegraphy station in St. John's! George, you remember Mister Marconi!"

"Indeed I do! The gentleman you sent to Signal Hill when we were in Newfoundland. Small world, then, small world! Well, let me tell you, it was a lovely ship. And the food! Good heavens. Every meal was a feast!"

"And what did you see in Paris, then?" Julia enquired.

"My goodness. What didn't we see? We must have traversed nearly every corner of the city. Ah… what would you like to hear about?"

William considered. "I was glad to see from your postcard that you got to ride on the moving sidewalks along the Seine! They were in a film by Thomas Edison, about the Exposition Universelle in 1900."

"Oh, yes!" Nina exclaimed. "They were wonderful. That was just at the beginning of our time there. There were so many beautiful buildings and amenities all around the city left from the Exposition. We were so sorry to have missed it!"

"And what about the art? I've read of quite a vibrant art scene in Montmartre in particular," prompted Julia.

"Oh, my heavens, the streets in Montmartre were positively teeming with painters! The atmosphere there is so exciting at the moment. Such a raw, energetic spirit in the work of so many of them. It was just thrilling to see so much in one place!"

"And what about you, George? Did you enjoy the art?" William asked, a touch sardonically. George knew William was not a fan of paint on canvas.

George, a little sheepish, nodded. "I, I, I dare say I did! Nina and our new friends explained a, a, a great deal to me. When you understand the history of the various art movements it all makes far more sense."

Nina patted George's leg. "It was quite lovely watching him learn to appreciate the different styles and techniques. There were even some works that he liked!"

"George!" William said, a little stung. "So I am now alone now in my lack of enthusiasm for visual art, then?"

George grinned as Julia smirked and gently swatted her husband's arm. "I suppose you are, at least in present company."

William leaned in, apparently eager to change the subject. "But did you get to the galleries at the Jardin des Plantes? I've read about them, and they sound most impressive! Zoology, and mineralogy and geology, and palaeontology and comparative anatomy, and botany—those are certainly the first things I would visit on a trip to Paris!"

Julia nodded, agreeing enthusiastically. "Yes, yes, absolutely, they're delightful. Did you make it there?"

"We did indeed, we did indeed." He recalled briefly what he and Nina had got up to while hidden in a small copse of bushes at the Jardin, and she caught his eye to show that she remembered, too. They both stifled a giggle. "Oh, it was quite marvellous. Nina, tell him about, ah, ah, ah, the skeletons of the dinosaurs."

Nina smiled, and picked up his hand. "I should think they'd rather hear first about George Crabtree, the hero of Egypt and the Louvre," she said.

"'Hero'?" echoed Julia. "My goodness! Do tell!"

August 30, 1905, 88 Maitland Street, Toronto, 7:00am

The alarm clock began to clamour, and George jolted awake to surroundings that were both familiar and strange. It took him a moment to place himself: he was with Nina, in her elegant, handsomely furnished room.

Nina stirred in his arms, and he kissed her. "Good morning, love."

Her grimace at the alarm turned to a smile at his embrace. She kissed him back, and ran a finger down his chest. "Good morning, George. What would you like to do today?" she asked playfully. "Another trip up to the Basilica to look out over the city? Or perhaps we could go back to Le Bon Marché so I might buy that corset and matching garter belt that I had my eye on. Or we might see if Abélard's chef friend at the Louvre will pack us a picnic to eat at the Arènes de Lutèce while we watch the old men playing boules?"

For a moment he was quite disoriented. Had he imagined the sad farewells, the entire trip home on the Sardinian and the train from Quebec, last night's dinner at the Windsor House Hotel? He looked at Nina in bafflement, and she stared back in all earnestness until she finally collapsed into giggles.

"I got you, didn't I," she laughed.

"Don't do that, Nina!" He laughed as well, with relief, mostly, but also a little peevishness. Part of him very much wished to laze about with Nina in her rooms all day, drinking wine and reminiscing about Paris. Alas: it was time to go back to work.

He rolled out of bed and began putting on his uniform. He had showered at his own boarding house and picked it up last night when the carriage from Union Station had dropped his trunks off at his room. "I'm surprised you didn't stay in your own bed last night, George," Nina told him as she watched him get dressed. "I know you are quite partial to your own pillow."

George was buttoning the last button of his constable's tunic, and he gestured down at it as he replied. "I shouldn't wish to do all the readjusting to life back here at once," he told her. "Just the clothes are quite enough for now. And I can hardly bear to be parted from you after all this time together."

"I should think you'd be quite sick of me by now!" She laughed, and climbed out of the bed to embrace him.

"Never!" he told her, kissing her tenderly as he cupped her face in his hands.

"I had fun last night with William and Julia," she said.

"As did I," he agreed. "They are some of my favourite people." He thought briefly of Louise's dismissal of them as "awful bores." Yes, there it was: the enduring spark of anger that flared every time she crossed his mind.

Nina continued, bringing him back to the sweetness of the moment. "They certainly were fascinated by the tale of George the Hero! And I thought William's eyes might pop out of his head when I told him I'd worn the collar of Queen Tiye's mother. He was so excited!"

George smiled at the memory. "I dare say that's one thing I, I, I find remarkable about the detective. When he is deeply interested in something, nothing else need exist."

"That's true! It's as if everything else disappears for him. He almost looks as if in a trance."

"You've noticed that, have you?" quipped George. It was one of the very first things he'd observed about the man, more than a decade ago. "But when he comes out of it, he has usually figured out something quite complex. He is a brilliant man."

"And Julia is most engaging herself. Her wit, and her insights…"

"And she is most attractive. As is her husband," George mused, and felt himself growing pensive.

It was as if Nina could hear his thoughts. "You've missed them, haven't you, George."

The words tumbled out in a rush. "Oh, I've missed everyone quite dearly. Even the inspector. I'm so glad to be home. While we were away I often wished for the detective so that I could show him an artefact, or discuss the heist with him... it, it, it's simply not the same to describe it after the fact." He shoved his feet into his boots, and sat down to lace them up.

"You're glad to be home."

"I am indeed! Are you?"

Nina hesitated. "Well, I suppose I am. My friends are here, my brother is here, and there are aspects of the city I had missed. But we were in Paris, George. I should mind it not at all to spend the rest of my days there."

"That is a fantasy I shall certainly entertain for some time," George agreed. He thought he saw a strange look in her eyes for a moment, but then it was gone.

"George, before you go, there should be a newspaper outside my door. Would you mind bringing it in?"

"I'd be happy to," he replied as he went to retrieve it, pleased to be back in the land of newspapers he could read. The detective and Doctor Ogden had filled them in on some of the most notable news since they had gone, but he was looking forward to perusing some of the papers from the past six weeks to catch up more properly. And he made it a point never to miss one of Madge Merton's columns.

A newspaper lay at the door, yes, but it looked odd. The first thing that he noticed was that it was folded strangely: it looked as if someone had already read it, and left it open to a certain page. He glanced down at the headline as he picked it up.

The headline suddenly registered, and he almost choked. PERPLEXITIES OF THE PYRAMIDS, it read. He scanned furiously over the page.

My column! He'd given not a second thought to the columns, or the Telegraph, or the odious Louise Cherry, in weeks. When did she publish this? His eyes darted up the page to the date, and he blinked in surprise. July 7? But it's August 30! This is nearly two months old!

And why is it here, at Nina's?

"George? Is there a paper?" Nina called from inside her rooms.

He was too stunned to respond.

[i] I… I stole this. It's Leonard Nimoy's opening voiceover for the "Pyramid Secrets" episode of In Search of… Remember the intro to the whole story? You were warned.

[ii] Gjenvik-Gjønvik Archives, "American Line Southampton to New York Service – 1908."

[iii] I cribbed this menu from the November 21, 1908, lunch menu of the S.S. Haverford. I figure it was pretty typical of steamship fare at the time.

[iv] Geri Walton, Diligence coach: How people traveled in it in France.

[v] From Montmartre Artists' Studios. Père Azon / Le Relais de la Butte..

[vi] From the Montmartre Secret blog. Constant Daléchamps. Premier Ministre de la Mort. Rue Caulaincourt.

[vii] I discovered too late that the S. S. Sardinian did not have a first cabin, only second and third. I apologise for any inconvenience this mistake may have caused.