Chapter Five

Erik.

I am not a man who is prone to losing my senses, and yet I can think of no other explanation as to why I was standing upright one moment, and on my knees the next.

Antoinette was wrapped from the neck down in the beautiful diamond-patterned quilt that Meg had spent months sewing for her. She looked pale and peaceful certainly, but she could not be dead. I knew death, had walked in the shadow of its angel since my formative years, and it did not look like this. My head was full of the beating of drums, the beating of hearts that were not my own, even as I scrambled to find a pulse in her cool wrist. There was nothing, and I struggled to comprehend how Antoinette's heart could no longer be functioning, how I could have lost her. My colleague. My ally. My friend.

"Erik?" Meg's voice was barely more than a whisper. "We need Dr Gotreich."

"Yes—yes, of course," my mind was in turmoil, I could not think. "He may be able to help."

"He can't help, Erik," there was a tremble in the girl's voice. "It's too late for that. But we need him and I can't leave her alone. Please, Erik, please fetch Dr Gotreich. We need to find out what we do next."

I felt detached from my own body as I stumbled from Antoinette's apartment and up two flights of stairs. I had to hold onto the wall to stay upright as I brought my fist down upon the doctor's apartment door. I was hardly aware of the door opening, that Gotreich was in his nightclothes.

"It's Antoinette," was all I managed to say. Without a word, he seized his medical bag from beside the door and passed me, and I heard his footsteps on the stairs. I followed him more slowly, still afraid of falling. When I went back into the apartment, Meg was still seated beside her sleeping Mother, and Dr Gotriech was talking to her, gently disengaging their fingers from one another.

"I don't know," Meg was murmuring numbly. "She said she loved me. Maybe twenty minutes ago, and I didn't know what to do."

I turned to close the door, resting my forehead against it, my mask feeling slippery against my perspiring brow. When I turned back, my gaze went to Antoinette, to Meg, to my violin and bow lying on the carpet. I had been playing my violin, entertaining my dearest friend, and without knowing it, I had been watching her die.

The next thing I knew I was striding across the room and Meg by the shoulders, dragging her to her feet and shaking her like a terrier with a rat.

"You knew!" I bellowed at her. "You knew and you didn't say anything! What is wrong with you?! I might have been able to save her, you thoughtless, useless, imbecilic—"

"Danton, get off her!" Gotreich shoved his way between us, forcing me to let Meg go. "That's enough! For God's sake!"

She was sheet-white, quaking with shock, and the right side of her face was bright red. I had slapped her, I realised, and felt tears escaping my stinging eyes.

"There was nothing that you could have done," the doctor continued, his arm around Meg. "We knew that it was likely that the aneurysm would happen again. She did not suffer, Meg, it was peaceful. She just slipped off to sleep. There wasn't any pain."

"I'm—I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Meg, I—I didn't mean to hurt you, I lost my head for a moment." I reached out a trembling hand for Meg. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

She let me embrace her, still shaking like a kitten in the snow. I did not know what else to say.

"I need a handkerchief," Gotreich said gently. "I need to tie it around Madame Giry's head to stop her jaw from dropping. It will be a few hours before rigor mortis sets in, then we can remove it."

"Of course," Meg whispered. "I'll find you one."

"Herr Danton, please will you help me move Madame Giry into her bedroom?"

"Of course," I echoed, unwilling to obey, unable to refuse.

There were rituals surrounding death, and I was wholly unfamiliar with them. A strange state to find myself in given my intimate relationship with murder. But a murderer seldom has to deal with the aftermath of his crime. My father had died before I was born, and when my estranged mother shuffled off this mortal coil, I had been informed of the fact by a letter from her solicitor. My letter of reply had contained instructions to deal with all the necessary procedures of death, such as the preparation of her corpse and her funeral, in my absence.

I did not know any of the practical and superstitious rites that began in the early hours of that morning; the clock in the drawing room being set to the time of Antoinette's death and stopped, and the mirrors being covered.

Dr Gotreich and I moved Antoinette to her bed and laid her there, her eyes closed, arms by her sides, the handkerchief wrapped under her jaw and around her head to keep her mouth closed until rigor mortis froze it in place. We placed a fresh sheet over her and stood side by side, looking at the shape in respectful silence.

"There is little that can practically be done tonight," Gotreich told me, his voice soft. "In the morning Miss Giry will need to attend to the body, while you fetch the undertaker."

"I do not know of any undertakers in the area," I confessed. Why would I know of any? I had not anticipated needing their services.

"I do," he replied. "Treadwell's, in Brooklyn. They will embalm Madame Giry here, if that was her wish, and while the viewing takes place they will assist with the funeral arrangements. It is traditional, Herr Danton, for the funeral service to also be done in the home, before the deceased is moved to a cemetery."

"We never made any plans," I realised. "Nothing beyond her last Will and Testament, and that did not specify what should happen to her remains. She would have told me."

"It is not unusual not to have a plan. None of us want to think about the day we will die."

"But we should have!" I cried. "We knew this was going to happen, sooner or later!"

"Herr Danton, we cannot discuss this now. It is not right. I can give you a sedative if you wish, so that you can sleep."

"Sleep?" The word had lost all meaning.

"You will need your rest," the doctor said. "There is a lot to do in the morning."

I nodded, weariness suddenly sweeping over me like a wave submerging a ship.

"And for Miss Giry," I added. "I won't let her argue about it. She needs rest as much as I."

We returned to the drawing room to find Meg sitting in an armchair opposite the sofa, staring at it as if her mother's corpse was still there. Dr Gotreich silently passed her, leaving to fetch his required medications. My violin and bow were in Meg's lap, and she was clutching the arms of the chair so hard that her knuckles had turned white. Her eyes were wide and dry in her pale face, the red slap mark on her cheek already beginning to bruise.

"Forgive me," my fingers hovered over the evidence of my violence upon her skin.

"You didn't know what you were doing," her voice was almost a monotone. "Shock, I suppose. Is this shock? Is that why I can't feel?"

"Yes, Meg. I need you to listen to me now. We have done all that can be done for tonight, and we both need to rest; it will be a long day tomorrow. Dr Gotreich is going to give us both some medication to help us sleep."

"I don't want any—"

"Stop. Speaking."

Gotreich returned with two small phials of liquid and handed one to me, holding out the other to Meg.

"I don't—"

"Drink it or I'll pour it down your throat."

I was too tired to be gentle, struggling too hard with my own grief, and I think she could tell that for herself. She uncorked the little bottle and downed its contents, and I followed suit, wincing at the flavour.

"Thank you, doctor." She said, giving him back the bottle. "For everything you've done this evening. I—I don't know how we're going to cope without…"

"Miss Giry, please let me assure you that you are not alone. I think tonight showed how valued your mother is—was—within our community. The sad news will be delivered in the morning, and I think you will find many people who will want to assist you both in any way we can." His eyes went from her face to mine. "You have my deepest condolences. You and Herr Danton."

"Do you want me to escort you to your apartment?" I asked, but Meg shook her head.

"We should open the windows," Gotreich said quietly. "It is a good thing we are well into autumn. There is the option for an iced casket at Treadwell's, if you think it will be necessary."

"I do not know what will be necessary," I confessed. "When young Mr Adair died, the other carpenters did everything. All I did was give them money."

"There are many here who have helped our friends and loved ones lie in state, Herr Danton. Every man has to do this at some point in his life. There is help here for you as well as for Miss Meg." He patted me on the shoulder. "Goodnight, mein freund."

I struggled back up the stairs to the top floor, my own private domain, my limbs heavy with fatigue. As I undressed and placed my mask on the mannequin head that served as its home, I kept seeing flashes of Meg's face. White, dry-eyed, the red mark upon her cheek, the bruising. What had possessed me to strike a grieving child? Her child? Had Antoinette known, she would be furious; she had once threatened to 'end me' if I laid a hand on her daughter again.

The sedative was clouding my thoughts. I must know the processes and procedures in the event of a death, here in the West. And yet, for all I tried, the only rituals I could remember were from the East, from my time in Persia. The corpse had been a man in his early thirties, not one of my victims. He had died as a result of a small wound that had become infected, filling his blood with poison. His body had been washed, wrapped in white cloths and buried under the murmur of Arabic prayers within twenty-four hours of his passing. Things were so different on this side of the world. I knew that my friend would still be in her apartment for several days more.

My friend.

Such a small honorific, but one that I so rarely bestowed. By the time the drug had smothered me in sleep, I was sobbing like a widower into my pillow.

I do not remember the words I used at the Imaginarium the next morning to give my employees the news that Madame Giry had died. I do remember the surge of sound, a sort of mixed gasp and cry of disbelief and shock. Many of them had been at Madame Giry's birthday party the evening before, had seen and spoken to her. The amusement park itself would be closing for three days, out of respect for Antoinette, and to give myself and Meg time to make further business decisions. While Meg was in mourning, her role as leading lady would be taken by her understudy Helen Roylott, but what of my responsibilities? Over the past year I had spent more time at the Imaginarium than at my home, not having a day away from it apart from Christmas Day itself. Dr Gotreich, who had become my stage manager during the staffing reshuffle in Spring, could take on some of those duties, but what of the others? I needed time to think, so that I had time to mourn.

As questions flooded at me about what had happened and what could be done to help, I had eyes only for Mrs Johnson, quietly drawing her to one side.

"I need telegrams sent to the investors," I told her. "Would you oblige?"

"Of course, Mr Danton," she reached out and gently squeezed my upper arm. "I am so sorry for your loss."

I nodded, swallowing hard to rid myself of the lump in my throat. What was wrong with me? Or was this what everyone felt? People mourned in different ways, I knew that, I had lost people before. But never like this; never someone who had been so close to me.

By the time I returned from Treadwell's undertakers that afternoon, someone had hung a black wreath on Antoinette's front door, indicating that a death had occurred. I knocked, and Lucy Phelps let me in. Beyond her I could see other women in my employ; the Roylott twins Helen and Julia, and Irene Norbury, all cleaning the apartment for the expected visitation.

"Is Meg still here?"

"She's sitting with her mother."

Meg was sitting by Antoinette's bed, her hands in her lap, wearing the black crepe dress that had been made for her when she had been in mourning for her fiancé, the Irish carpenter Benedict Adair. I had vaguely expected her to be reading, maybe the Bible, but she was just staring into the air. Even though I had already opened the door, I rapped my knuckles against it gently.

"Meg?"

She looked at me.

"Erik. Come in."

I knew that Meg and her companions had spent the morning washing and arranging the body, but was still unprepared. Antoinette was lying on top of the bed, fully dressed in the beautiful black gown of chiffon and beads and lace that had been purchased to celebrate our settlement on Coney Island. She had worn it the night in early January when we had all dined with my investors. Her hands were resting on her abdomen over a bouquet of white roses. Antoinette's hair had been loosed from its usual sever bun, and instead rested in a long braid over one shoulder, the raven tresses sparkling with the occasional streaks of grey and silver. She had not yet achieved the age of fifty, and my mind, for a moment, saw her with those flowers as a grotesque mirror image of a bride.

"You have done well by her," I managed as I closed the door behind me, unsure what to say. Meg acknowledged my words with a nod and gestured me to a chair.

"Thanks to my friends. I wasn't sure what to do, really. But I knew that Mother would want to be in this dress. She loved this dress."

"A fine choice."

"And what of you? The ladies said you went to an undertaker?"

"Treadwell's, in Brooklyn. They will be here at four o'clock to do the embalming."

"Must they? I always found the idea of embalming to be distasteful. Invasive."

"I feel it would be wise."

"What of a coffin? You didn't buy one from them, did you? Not without asking me?"

"No," I laid my hand on hers. "No, my dear, I would not dream of it. I wanted to speak to you on that matter, because Seamus Donnelly approached me as I was leaving the Imaginarium. He said that he and his colleagues would be honoured to create a coffin for Madame Giry."

"Like they did for Benedict?" The ghost of a smile passed over Meg's lips. "Then please tell them I accept."

There was another knock on the door.

"Come in."

Lucy put her head around the door. "Meg, Mr Seymour is here to see you."

"Please send him in."

My investor entered the room, his eyes darting to Antoinette on the bed before they focused deliberately on Meg. He was wearing black gloves and a heavy outdoor coat against the November weather, a dark green silk scarf hanging over each shoulder, and was carrying another bouquet of roses, these being pale pink.

"I got the news via telegram," he said. "I hope I'm not intruding."

"Not at all."

"I'm so sorry, Miss Giry," he approached us almost hesitantly, casting around for somewhere to sit, but finding that we had the only chairs. "I brought flowers for… whatever comfort flowers can bring you."

"Thank you, Mr Seymour," Meg took the bouquet from him. "That was a very kind thought."

Seymour was looking at her in a way that expressed something more than sympathy.

"I haven't known Madame Giry for very long, but I found her to be a wonderful woman. If I can offer you any assistance, please let me know. Anything, really; information, money… anything I can do."

"The undertaker will be here soon," she told him. "After that … I'm not really sure what we do next."

"I can share my experience," he replied. "As you know, my wife died last year. But if you don't mind, I would prefer not to do so in here."

Mr Seymour was a little squeamish, I observed, and then inwardly cursed the thought. My friend was lying dead feet away, and I could still feel smugness about another's perceived weakness. I was a monster.

Meg stood up and led the way out of the bedroom, and after a brief talk with Irene Norbury, motioned for us to follow her upstairs to her own apartment.

"I'll do that," I told her as she headed towards the fireplace to light the kindling that was already in place. By the time I had got the fire properly burning, the gentleman was divested of his outdoor clothing, and he and Meg were sitting on the sofa, leaving the armchair for me.

"Am I right in thinking," Seymour began, "that being French, you would be averse to cremation?"

"On religious grounds," I corrected. "Antoinette was a Catholic. Catholicism forbids cremation."

He nodded, and I wondered what his religious leanings were, if he had any.

"She has a plot back home," Meg had leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, chin resting on clasped hands. "In Paris, I mean. She has a space beside my father, in the St. Louise graveyard."

"Meg," I tried not to grind my teeth. "Treadwell's are a very good undertaker, but I doubt even their embalming techniques are good enough to keep a cadaver in an acceptable condition for the time it would take to return it to France."

Meg flinched, leaning back, and Seymour shot me an angry look.

"A local burial, then," I clarified. "I imagine that it will be a case of finding a church willing to accept Madame Giry and negotiating a price."

"Like you did for Benedict," Meg mumbled.

"Cross a clergyman's palm with silver," I said blunted. "They are not immune to bribery."

"There may be another option," Seymour said slowly.

"Yes?"

"Well… in the State of New York, it is legal to bury someone on private land, with the landowner's permission." He raised his eyebrows at me.

"And I own land on Coney Island," I completed his thought. Meg was looking between us, her brow furrowed.

"You want to bury Mother here?"

"It is a possibility." Seymour said. "If she cannot be buried in her chosen graveyard in Paris, then why not have her interred at the Imaginarium?"

"It's not consecrated ground," she objected.

"It can be made so. The priest that Mr Danton was so keen to bribe could bless the place where you intend to bury your mother."

Meg looked at me, uncertain, troubled even. "Would that be possible?"

"I believe it would," I answered. "If you are agreeable, Meg, we could lay your mother to rest at the Imaginarium."

"Where she lived and worked," Meg said thoughtfully. "We would choose the spot together?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then I think that is a wonderful idea," she smiled weakly and reached out a hand to each of us, squeezing our fingers.

The place Meg and I chose was just metres away from the Imaginarium concert hall's stage door, on an area of ground that I had had a vague notion of making into a bed for wild flowers. The idea had been sparked by an article in the newspaper about so-called butterfly gardens, filled with flora that enticed the attractive creatures. It was going to be a bright surprise for those who wandered around to the back of the admittedly plain building. Most theatres are plain at the back, with all the glamourous architectural details reserved for the customer-facing front.

"Mother would like it here," Meg told me. "In the presence of everything she helped to create." She smiled down at the patchy area of grass which was gradually disappearing under a light layer of snow. "Including me."

I shifted the umbrella in my grasp. "I will not dissuade you if your mind is made up. I would just point out that you will have no way of avoiding this spot."

"I wouldn't avoid it. I want to be able to see her every day, not like with Papa. Or my poor Benedict, who are both now so far away."

I gently squeezed the arm that she had wound through mine, and assured her that her wishes would be fulfilled.

It was Seymour who brought the priest to the Imaginarium the following day. I did not know whether the young Father had been bribed into this task and did not want to know. Seymour and I stood either side of him, as with a ceremony of holy words, holy water and holy oil, the soggy plot was transformed into sacred ground. Yesterday's snow had melted despite the frigid air, and the sun shone sharp and clear from a sky so blue that it almost hurt to look at.

Conditions were the same on the day that we said farewell to my dearest friend. The funeral took place in the same drawing room where Antoinette had been lying for viewing over the last five days, as her friends and colleagues filed slowly in and out, paying their last respects. The coffin was a work of art, a dark mahogany carved with roses, surround the silhouette of a ballerina, poised in an arabesque. The embalmers' work was superb, somehow imbuing the lifeless body with a soft rosy blush. She looked as though she might open her eyes at any moment, as though all it would take would be the right kiss to revive her. There were flowers everywhere, the air full of their sweet, sickly aroma.

After the same priest had spoken about Antoinette's life and legacy, the sombre pallbearers lifted the coffin onto their shoulders and into the hearse, for the short journey to the Imaginarium. The deceased was always taken out of the property feet first, I learned, to prevent them from looking back and deciding to stay, or beckoning someone else to follow them to the grave. Despite my fanciful thoughts that day, I could not give that one credence. Even though – or perhaps because – I had spent some of my life as the Phantom of the Opera, I did not believe in ghosts.

All too soon we had arrived at the Imaginarium's freshly-dug graveside, and the familiar words were driving like needles into my skull: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Meg was weeping silently, had been since the funeral began, but she did so openly, not hiding behind a veil or handkerchief. If she could be unashamed of her tears, then so could I. I clasped Meg Giry's hand in mine, and together, we cried.

It was late night by the time the wake was over, and Meg and I sat alone in her apartment, drinking brandy.

"May I ask a selfish question?"

"Of course," I nodded.

"What will happen to me now?"

"I don't understand…"

Meg sipped her brandy, and gazed into the fire.

"There is as much etiquette surrounding death and mourning as there is around everything else, Erik. Especially for women. My mother had died. It would not be considered proper for me to be grieving one minute, and singing and dancing with a dazzling smile on my face the next." She swallowed hard. "Am I dismissed as the Imaginarium's leading lady, Erik?"

I took a thoughtful sip of my own brandy. "Do you wish to be?"

"No!" Her gasp was almost a sob.

"Then I think in this case, we can disregard etiquette. Remember, Meg, that have been watching over you since the day you were born. I know how much of an inspiration Antoinette was to you. She taught you to dance. She moulded you into the greatest ballerina I have ever seen. It would be a disservice to her to give that up." There were more tears sparkling in Meg's eyes. "I expect you to take as much time away from the Imaginarium as you feel is necessary. And when you are ready to return, the leading lady position will be open for you.

It was ten days later when the plaque arrived for Antoinette's grave; charcoal grey with gold lettering.

Antoinette Isabelle Giry

7th November 1852 – 7th November 1900

Beloved Mother. Cherished Friend.

'And now these three things remain: Faith, Hope and Love.

But the greatest of all of these is Love.'