Chapter 1
Two weeks later the Persian was still at a loss about how he would go about helping his friend. Meddling in Erik's private affairs was a dangerous game, and required both a flawless plan and a delicate touch. Unfortunately, Nadir found himself somewhat short of ideas. Still, he knew that he had to at least try to free the Trap-Door Lover from the prison of his own mind. He was beginning to hear whispers from the bowels of the opera that the Ghost was back and up to his old tricks again, more relentless that ever.
He thought Erik could use a distraction. A puzzle or an aggravation of some sort would do him and the opera staff some good, though he could think of nothing that could hope to hold the Phantom's interest for very long. It was a very chilly winter morning. Snow had fallen and business was particularly quiet, as could only be expected given the weather.
Nadir was seated behind the counter at the front of the shop. He wore his bronze-framed spectacles and was crouched over a thick ledger, pencil in hand and a frown of concentration on his face. The former Daroga of Mazenderan hated doing the books.
He looked up, startled out of his concentration when the door of the little shop jangled and a gust of cold wind blew into the shop, disturbing the cocoon of warmth around him.
A young lady had entered the shop, wearing a dark woollen cloak over her dress and a hood over her bonnet. She paused a moment to remove the hood and her gloves before proceeding further into the shop and smiling a greeting at Nadir. She was rather pale, though her cheeks were slightly pink from the cold, and Nadir was impressed that she had braved the weather at all.
Straightening and removing his spectacles, the Persian returned the friendly smile.
"Good morning, mademoiselle. How may I be of assistance?" he enquired politely, grateful for the distraction from his ledgers.
OOO
Miss Hero Winterwood had come across the little shop quite by accident. She had been in search of a likely place all morning, and had just about decided to give up, when she saw it. The Treasure Chest had caught her attention by its window display, which was full of old paintings, strange boxes and objects which she could not quite identify. It seemed very much the sort of place she had been looking for, and she decided to go in.
Hero's intentions were quite simple. She wished to find a buyer for an antique jewellery box she had liberated from a marquis near La Vendee. The man had been rather odious and overly persistent with his attentions, but Hero thought the box might just be worth the trouble. She was exceedingly glad to find the little shop – for one thing, it looked to be very warm inside.
She had just pocketed her gloves when the tall Persian man at the counter wished her a good morning. He had the easy manner of the proprietor about him and she instantly liked the intelligent light in his eyes.
"And to you, monsieur," she replied to the Persian's greeting. "I certainly hope that you can help me. I dread to think that I have navigated the snow for nothing." The hem of her skirts was beginning to soak with melting snow and she was very eager to get back to the rooms she had rented for the night.
"Indeed, mademoiselle, I myself would be very reluctant to venture out." The Persian shot an amused look outside the window, before returning his attention to Hero. "And how may I help you, my dear?"
"I'm looking to sell an artefact. It's an original Jacques Grenville." Hero produced the box from a pocket in the recesses of her dress and set it before the Persian. The man regarded her with a raised eyebrow, before producing a looking glass from one of the drawers in the counter and gingerly picking up the box to examine it.
To the uninitiated eye it would seem as nothing more than a prettily carved box. It was cherry wood, octagonal in shape, with rose patterns carved delicately into the lid and decorated with fragile silver filigree and mother-of-pearl. Nadir, however, had an excellent memory for detail, born of years of police service and he had seen the likes of this box before. It was a Pre-Revolutionary relic; early seventeenth century and quite rare. Grenville boxes supposedly had a trick lock, he remembered, a tiny needle that introduced venom into the blood of the potential thief. He wasn't sure he believed that. He did not open the box. Instead, his eyes darted to the young lady before him.
He had had sad experience of people selling family keepsakes, but she did not look to be in any trouble or financial straits. She did not appear at all emotionally attached to the box.
"This is indeed a Grenville, as you say. But they are very rare. I must ask, how did you come to have it?" he asked urgently, scanning her face. Something akin to amusement flashed across her features and a corner of her mouth quirked up slightly.
"Ah, monsieur, that would be telling, wouldn't it? I'm afraid I cannot answer you. I assume you can appraise me of its worth?"
The Persian sighed. It was certainly a rare acquisition, though that same old police instinct caused him to doubt the girl's rightful ownership of the thing. He thought a moment.
"Very well, my dear. Then I must ask whether you have the key for it, also."
Hero nodded and produced a slender silver key with a matching filigree handle, which she had placed on a thin chain around her neck.
"I daresay that the key is not such a necessity as legend would have us believe," said Nadir as he accepted the key and used it to carefully open the box, revealing the silk lining inside.
Hero chuckled softly and shook her head. "There I can confidently say that I'm afraid you are mistaken, monsieur. And I suspect you are not so sure yourself, else you would not have waited for the key."
He regarded the young woman carefully for a moment, surprise quickly replaced by curiosity.
"There is a trick to it, you know," she continued. "One can force it open without the key and avoid the venom if one only knows where the release lever is located. It's this one here, if you want to know, where the two roses overlap." She indicated the carving in question with a careless wave of her fingers. "That should deactivate the needles located in each of the eight corners and save you the trouble of having to die from the poison."
"I see. And you wouldn't happen to know the sort of poison that it is supposed to contain?" His eyes were fixed carefully on her face now.
"Distilled viper venom, I believe, though I don't know the exact specifications. I understand it gives the victim the sensation of freezing slowly from the inside. Quite unusual. All in the nervous system, of course. You might recognise it, monsieur, it was quite common in Persia."
His eyebrows rose. "I do. I was chief of police there and, as you say, the venom saw quite a lot of use. It is a very disturbing thing to witness, mademoiselle. I wonder, though, how you would know of it."
"I travel a lot, monsieur." Her reply made quite plain that she would divulge no more, and yet Nadir suspected there was quite a lot left unsaid about how she came to have the box.
"Indeed. Well, I can pay you a third of what it is worth now, for I do not have the rest of the money with me. I shall have to write to my bank. You can leave it with me now and return, or else you may wish to come again. It is quite valuable and you may not want to leave it."
Hero pretended to consider this, though she was quite keen to be rid of the box as soon as she could before anyone tried to claim, or possibly reclaim, it from her.
"Very well, I shall leave it with you, monsieur," she said at last.
The Daroga was surprised again, though he nodded solemnly. "Then you have my word that you shall have your full payment no later than two weeks' time."
Hero nodded her agreement. Nadir went into the back room and returned with the correct amount a moment later, writing out a receipt in a neat handwriting.
"You seem quite sure of my word, mademoiselle," he observed when he'd returned.
"Sometimes all a person has is their word," she replied softly, as she retrieved her gloves from a pocket, reluctant to leave the warmth of the shop. Nadir was momentarily startled by her reply, wondering where he might have heard those words before.
They were both silent for a moment, and Hero took advantage of the silence to look about the shop.
"There must be fascinating stories behind some of these things," she said, examining an intricately decorated hand mirror.
"Ah. Yes, I believe there are. Most of the collection you see here at the back of the shop is tied to one story in particular," Nadir replied, watching her carefully.
"What story is that, monsieur?"
"Why, to the disaster at the Opera Garnier, which took place not two years ago. If you had gone past the opera house, you would have seen that it is being restored. That is because of a fire that took place there. The restorations are well under way, but most of the building is still in shambles. They discovered some interesting wares clearing the third basement and decided to sell them. They need the funds, you see. Opera is an expensive and, I understand, somewhat unprofitable business. They rely heavily on patronage. The principal patron of the Garnier is away at the moment, and in his absence they receive only a specified monthly amount which, combined with what the owners are able to invest in it, is hardly enough for the restorations at hand."
"How tragic," Hero murmured politely, though the affairs of the opera held no interest for her.
"It is. Though I cannot help but wonder at the legend behind the tragedy."
Hero thought she saw a strangely calculating expression flit across the older man's face.
"Legend?" she prompted, because despite herself she quite liked legends.
"You must not have been in Paris long, my dear, else you are bound to have heard the strange tale of the Opera Ghost. Some say the ghost burned down the Garnier in a sort of demonic fury. Others claim he was not a ghost at all, but a man. It was his obsession with a soprano, the new prima donna, which led to the disaster. There was a confrontation between the ghost and the lady's suitor, the young Vicomte de Chagny. The ghost cut the chandelier over a full auditorium, and the resulting fire had almost burned down the opera house." He didn't mention the gunpowder barrels in the basement – Nadir knew better than to give even a hint of his own involvement in the whole ghastly business.
"No, I've certainly not heard about that. I'm afraid I've just arrived in Paris from London this week. Could it not have been an accident? A fault in the gas lighting perhaps. But surely not a ghost. I quite agree that, if anyone was involved, it must have been a man. There is no such thing as ghosts, monsieur."
"Perhaps not. I rather think it is all part of a mystery which shall probably never be solved." The Persian gave her a concerned smile. "I hope I have not put you off our city. May I inquire as to your name, my dear?"
Hero seemed to consider him a moment before nodding briskly. "Winterwood," she informed him simply.
"And I am Nadir Khan, the proprietor of this little shop. Ah, but I fear I am keeping you with all my talk – it has been such a quiet morning's business otherwise. Do forgive me, my dear."
"Not at all. I shall see you in the next two weeks Monsieur Khan." She put her hood up over her bonnet again. "Good morning."
"Good morning." He watched her as she left the shop, crossed the narrow street and hailed a hansom. There was something peculiar about the young woman he was certain, though he could not quite put his finger on precisely what it might have been that had caught his notice.
OOO
Nadir Khan had been very right in his supposition. Hero Winterwood was not at all what she appeared to be.
As she left the shop with enough money to last her at least through the next month, Hero had every intention of disappearing, if only for a while. It was the prudent thing to do, given her activities in the preceding month and her habit of annoying exactly the wrong sort of people. Hero was not usually in the habit of hiding out, but her enemies had suddenly become many and they could be very inconspicuous when the need arose. Fortunately, so could Hero. Nadir Khan had given her an inkling of an idea with his story of the opera house. The bustling theatre, more chaotic than ever in the midst of reconstruction, was an ideal place to disappear.
She was also slightly curious, a trait her mother had never approved of. Hero liked mysteries, particularly ones that appeared to have to solution. And since her parents were at home, on the other side of the English Channel, she had no one to stop her from indulging her curiosity.
Her parents, the Baron and Lady Dalrymple, were unlikely to approve of their daughter's idea of an appropriate past-time. Pilfering and intrigue were not at all the sort of things proper young ladies got involved in. It amused Hero to picture her mother's expression, were she to hear that her elder daughter was running around France, of all places, entirely unchaperoned. Her parents believed to be her visiting her ailing great aunt Clara in Ireland, with whom Hero was, by all accounts, very close. Aunt Clara was not ailing in the least, but she had been widowed at a young age with no children and had had time to develop rather liberal ideas about life. She also had a warm affection for her great niece, and so she was quite content to let her nephew and his wife believe Hero to be staying with her.
Lady Dalrymple would never dream of her daughter seeking lodgings and employment at an opera house. Her clever enemies, Hero was sure, would not think to look for her there either.
The hansom drew to a halt outside on the Place de l'Opera and Hero paid the driver, thanking him for assisting her down the slippery step off the carriage and onto the street. Most of the snow had been cleared outside the opera, and only a thin layer dusted the cobble stones. Hero was unable to keep a bit of admiration off her face as she turned and took in the grand building before her. It was built in the baroque style, with columns and arches decorating the front façade. She squinted up at the roof, despite the snow that was still falling. A blue-green cupola sat on the roof, capped in bronze and decorated with gilding. A gilded Pegaus adorned either side of the roof, and a statue of Apollo holding a golden lyre rose at the apex. Charles Garnier's creation was certainly magnificent, she decided. As she made her way towards the main doors of the opera she felt quite enthusiastic about her plan.
Hero had always half-suspected it was largely the monotony of her careful upbringing, and perhaps the adolescent desire to annoy her mother, that had first led her to pilfering little things like handkerchiefs from her mother's visitors at the house. To her surprise, Hero found that she was quite good at it. It was anything but boring, and far preferable to embroidering samplers, at which she was no good and which only made her fingers bleed every time she was clumsy with the needle.
As she grew older, she had devised means to escape the confines of the house, thanks largely to her aunt Clara, and before she knew it, Hero had found herself facing some of the darker realities of the world she had chosen to explore. There had been the few months' tutelage in the art of assassination. Her tutor had been a man with quite a maverick reputation in his particular line of work and he had taken on a female student out of what Hero suspected to have been a fit of pique and contrariness. He had taught her well, but it did not take long for her to realise that that life would not suit her. It took her longer to realise that neither would he. The falling out had not been an easy one and Hero had chosen a life of adventure instead. All very secret, of course, and carefully separate from the life she led at home, but it was not a choice she regretted. She could never have been content to become an angel in the house, as young women of her station were often expected to do, or at least to appear to do.
No one paid her any mind as she entered the opera house. She climbed ten steps and passed through a set of doors into a small vestibule, which was also decorated with statues. She could make out a likeness of Handel, and Gluck, having stared at their portraits on the covers of music books as a child. At the time, she remembered, she had taken a particular dislike to Handel, whom she had been forced to learn about when she would much rather have been out on the lawns, enjoying a fine summer day. The other statues she did not recognise.
Hero proceeded on into the next vestibule, which housed ticket booths and through that into a larger hall. She paused a moment to take in the majestic staircase in the vast entrance hall, admiring the marble and more gilded statuary. A few people hurried irritably past, interrupting her inspection. She was just another figure in a crowd of people who, at first glance, appeared to be milling about without direction. Hero wondered where one was supposed to go to inquire about employment. Since no answer was forthcoming from either staircase or statuary, and the people around seemed too harassed to interrupt, she decided to head down the passage to her left. She was just about to commence her search when some kindly soul took pity on her.
"Are you lost my dear?" asked a middle aged woman, coming to a halt before her, her arms piled high with fabrics of various colours.
Seizing on her opportunity, Hero smiled at the woman. "Yes, actually, madame! I'm here to enquire about a position and I'm afraid I don't know where to go."
"Ah, yes. It can be a little overwhelming, can't it? But that's opera for you. It's always been this chaotic you now, though some will tell you it's the rebuilding that's to blame. But not to worry, I'll take you through where you need to go."
Hero thanked the woman, and offered to help her carry the fabrics.
"Now, usually you would go to Monsieur Remy, he is Monsieur Richard's secretary and he does the hiring. But I've been to see him myself this morning and he is quite run off his feet this week, and so you shall go directly to Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin. Not to worry though, my dear – they are perfectly pleasant gentlemen," the woman informed her as they pushed their way through the bustle and up some ordinary stairs.
The offices of Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin were situated deeper into the opera, an area which had suffered greater damage from the fire than the entrance hall. The walls were still darkened and new carpet was being laid down to replace the old.
They drew to a halt outside the first door on the right, and the woman knocked politely.
"What is it?" asked a voice from the inside, with a pained sigh.
The woman opened the door and went inside, Hero following behind.
"Yes, Madame Collot, can we help you?" asked a big man in a neat frock coat. His voice was weary. He eyed the piles of fabrics she and Hero were carrying. "I hope it's not another mishap in the costume department? I'm not sure we could afford another mishap."
"No, no, Monsieur Richard. It's nothing like that. I have only come to show this young lady to your offices. She is interested in asking after a job."
"Ah, I see. That's much better. I'm sure she won't come to be nearly so expensive as replacing all that damaged velvet again." The fixed Hero with a look as if to ascertain that she wouldn't somehow cost him any more thousands of francs in damages.
"Quite," said Mme Collot, a little disapprovingly, before turning to Hero and relieving her of the fabrics. "Now, I must be on my way. It was nice to meet you, my dear. Good luck."
Hero thanked the woman warmly as she left the office, and turned to the managers. Richard sat tiredly at a desk, looking glumly at a stack of receipts, while Moncharmin, a smaller, nervous-looking man, appeared to be poring over some half-burnt papers.
"So you are here in search of employment, mademoiselle?" asked Moncharmin, setting aside his papers.
Hero nodded. "Just so. My name is Hero Winterwood – "
"An Englishwoman?" Richard asked, without much interest.
"Yes, I have only been in Paris a few days."
"Really?" said Richard, looking back at his receipts. "Well then go on, Mademoiselle Winterwood, tell us what position you are looking for. We've no time for dilly-dallying, you know!"
Hero couldn't help a small chuckle. "Yes, quite right. Forgive me. Well, I didn't have any particular job mind. I wasn't entirely sure what was available."
"Nor are we, in this chaos, mademoiselle. You're not a singer, are you? Or a ballerina? If so, it would be the chorus master or the ballet mistress you'd need to speak with," Moncharmin said hopefully.
"I'm afraid not."
"Ah," he looked slightly disappointed. "Well, we can always use more hands around here, so I suppose we can put you to work somewhere. Remy would be the fellow to ask, but he's off arguing with that dratted acting-manager. Richard? Can you think of anything?"
Richard was not happy to be pulled away from his papers. "Send the girl to Mme Collot, since they've made friends already. She was just around here last week, buzzing about needing an assistant."
"Hmm. Yes! There's a plan." Moncharmin noticeably brightened, looking at Hero again. "Well, there you go, my dear. Off to Mme Collot with you, first thing tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock sharp. She runs a tight ship!"
"Indeed." Richard fixed Hero with another gloomy look, "but you must understand, mademoiselle, that until our patron returns, your pay will be minimal. We need the funds for the restoration."
Hero nodded, "I have some funds that ought to supplement my pay until then."
Richard seemed to cheer up at the prospect of minimal pay.
"Well, in that case, mademoiselle, welcome to the opera. You shall reside here if you've no objections. Your work days will be long, and it wouldn't do for a young lady to be making her way home late after dark. Some of our staff have rooms at the opera. And the younger members of the corps de ballet. Return tomorrow with your luggage and we shall find you a bed."
"Thank you, Messieurs."
The managers nodded dismissively. "Then we shall see you tomorrow," Moncharmin said as way of a farewell, waving her out the door.
With a nod at the pair, Hero left the offices and headed out. She glanced at the cobwebs, charred walls and unpolished wooden floor where the new carpeting had yet to be laid down. Hero was feeling quite pleased at her unexpected bout of luck, especially given that she would be spending more time at the opera than she had expected.