Back in the sanctity of her dressing room and away from curious eyes, Meg struggled to keep her composure. She had managed to calmly check over each and every one of her students, only releasing them to their guardians when she was satisfied that they had suffered nothing more than a fright; then, she hurried to the one place she could be alone, at least for a few minutes.
The tuneless exercise music played on loop in her mind, the crash of the weight hitting the stage mingled with screams, over and over. Meg sat on the tired sofa and wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She did not need to guess who was responsible; missing ribbons, redressed wigs, missing ballet slippers: the Opera Ghost was definitely back in residence.
"From silly pranks and petty thievery to bodily harm." She murmured, suppressing a shudder. "Keep your hand at the level of your eye.." Would the mischief escalate further? Was she the only one left at the Populaire who still remembered Buquet and Piangi?
"If you have set out to get my attention, Erik, you have it, I am listening." Meg announced to the silent dressing room.
Heavy footsteps broke the silence, drawing nearer and stopping in front of her door.
"Madamoiselle Giry?" a man's voice called before knocking. It was Desjardins. Meg took a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly. She unwound her arms, forcing them to her sides and to look natural; then, she crossed over and cracked the door open. The manager was not alone; a tall and rakish looking gendarme was at his side.
"Monsieur Desjardins." She acknowledged, stepping back to let the men step inside.
"This is Constable LeBlanc." He waved a pudgy hand towards his companion. "He would like to have a word with you about the incident today."
"Of course." Meg clasped her hands in front of her and looked expectantly at the constable.
"Please, have a seat mademoiselle." LeBlanc's voice was gravelly and unpleasant and Meg flinched; it was a sharp contrast to his good looks. Desjardins made a move to sit in the middle of the sofa.
"I prefer to stand, monsieur." Meg gave him her well practiced bland smile, usually reserved for eager fans and backstage patrons alike; her hands still clasped, Meg stared at the gendarme expectantly. She noticed a flash of annoyance on the manager's face, as it would have been rude to sit while she remained standing.
With his pencil poised over a small notepad, LeBlanc began his long list of inane questions.
"Your name for the record, please?"
"Marguerite Giry."
"And your age, mademoiselle?"
Meg's nerves melted into annoyance and she scowled at the indelicate question. What use was her age in this investigation? "Eight and twenty." She grumbled.
"Your occupation?"
"Seriously?"
"Just for the record, please, mademoiselle."
"I am a dancer, as you know." She sighed. "The dancer, the one and only La Giry. Perhaps you have seen me on the posters, monsieur?"
"Madamoiselle…" Desjardins voice was full of warning. Apparently he was not enjoying her bravado as much as she was.
"In your own words, please tell me what occurred on the stage today."
"Whose words would I use but my own?" Meg's body felt stiff and rigid, beyond the perfect posture her mother had driven into her. "I am not certain what more I can contribute. I was leading my girls through their positions, my back was to the class and I heard nothing but the piano and the shuffle of their slippers until I heard a loud crash and the girls began screaming."
"Did you notice anything unusual prior to your class; did you see someone you did not recognize?"
"I pay very little attention to the stage hands, monsieur." Meg waved a dismissive hand.
"Monsieur Desjardins and others have told me that you asserted that the rope of the sandbag had been cut."
"That is correct."
"And how did you know that?"
Meg wrinkled her nose with disdain. "Because I am not an idiot?"
Constable LeBlanc frowned but continued to scribble notes in the notepad.
"Is there anyone here that may wish to harm you?"
Meg looked around the room, as if she were expecting someone to attack her from the shadows; she leaned slightly towards the constable conspiratorially. The gleam of excitement in the officer's eyes was unmistakable.
"There is.." she bit her lip, trying to suppress a smirk." "No one." Her voice went flat. "There is no one, monsieur. Jealousy is a common thing in the arts, but I doubt any of them would go so far as to harm me."
Constable LeBlanc's lips pressed into a thin line and the sparkle in his eyes died. She was toying with him and he did not care for being toyed with, especially by a woman and one who made a living as a public exhibition at that. Desjardins shared the constable's look of displeasure.
"Perhaps it is as others suggested and is merely an accident?" Meg offered a little more meekly.
"Or maybe it was a ghost. What do you think of the assertions that it was an opera ghost?" LeBlanc inquired, his tone suggesting that he could not believe he was giving credence to superstitious theatre folk.
Meg struggled to keep her expression neutral though she did not believe that neither the constable nor the manager seriously thought it could be a specter; and, they would have been right. But that line of questioning could have led them to Erik. She would not give the Phantom any cause to think she had failed him as Madame Giry had; by letting another enemy through the gates. If they were to find him out, it would be because of his own careless pomposity.
"These things do happen." She said airily, recalling the words of another manager in another time, when there had been diva to soothe. "There are no such things as ghosts, messieurs."
"The Opera Ghost could be the culprit; perhaps we should make a search of the lower floors." Desjardins persisted.
"This ghost was a real man?" LeBlanc wondered. He seemed to her a mite too young to recall the events surrounding the fire at the Populaire.
"Yes, a very real and very dead man." Meg let her expression turn serious. "With all due deference to your investigation, Monsieur, I cannot offer any more insight for you. There are many new faces in the company these days as we prepare for the autumn season and perhaps one of the new hands is not as trustworthy as we would have hoped."
"Oui, thank you very much for your time, Mademoiselle Giry, it was a pleasure."
"The pleasure was mine. If you require anything further, do please call on me. I do so hope you find the responsible party."
LeBlanc tucked his notepad and pencil away and snatched her hand to his lips. "Au revior."
"Au revior." She gently removed her hand from his and resisted the urge to wipe it on her skirt. Desjardins had opened the door to see the officer out, scowling at LeBlanc's back as they took their leave, pulling the door shut behind them.
Meg let out the breath she had not realized she had been holding, deflating into a slumped posture that would have horrified her mother. She moved about the room, gathering her dance things and then throwing her heavy cloak on.
With a glance to the dressing mirror, she addressed the empty room. "A little less obvious next time please, Maestro."