Chapter 7 #2
The lady arched one expressive brow – she was the epitome of an Italian beauty with her dark hair and eyes, the sort of heroine Lord Byron liked to immortalise in his love poetry.
‘No autographs – we are working.’ Her accent was distinctly Italian too, which told Dora who she was.
She had seen prints of the woman from her younger days, though she was still a fine-looking personage in her early thirties.
Occasionally Dora’s work brought her into contact with her heroines and here was one of them.
‘Madame Catalani, sirs, please forgive our interruption to your rehearsal. My name is Dora Fitz-Pennington and this is Miss Austen.’
The second gentleman, another well-padded singer with greying locks and smiling eyes, snapped his fingers. ‘By Jove, the actress who has turned her hand to investigation – oh, yes, we’ve all been following your exploits with interest.’
Dora sighed inwardly that her hopes to go about incognito in Covent Garden might be ruined due to growing notoriety. ‘Tis I.’ She gave a theatrical bow.
‘And your companion?’ asked Madame Catalani.
‘She—’ Dora hesitated, not wanting to give the lie unless necessary.
‘I am the author of Sense and Sensibility. I’m researching my next novel,’ said Miss Austen happily. ‘I must say, accompanying Miss Fitz-Pennington as she goes about her work is turning up some stimulating material.’
The soprano, famed for her three-octave range, who could command any price she named for a private performance, rushed over and kissed Miss Austen on the cheeks three times.
‘è una bellissima storia!’ She showed the self-labelled novelist to a chair.
‘Please, sit down. What do you want to know? Anything for the writer of that charming book. Will you write about an opera singer, yes? Someone who gives all for amore?’
‘Something like that,’ Miss Austen said with a sly smile.
With silent apologies to the real authoress, Dora took another chair at the table, pushing aside scripts for the next plays.
‘Are you writing anything else?’ asked the soprano, her attention all on Miss Austen.
‘How kind of you to enquire. Indeed, the reception of my first work has encouraged me to try a manuscript I wrote some years ago.’
‘Oh? And what is the theme?’ asked the singer.
Careful, thought Dora, don’t give the game away. She hoped Miss Austen could think on her feet.
‘It’s about first impressions,’ said Miss Austen, ‘and how they can so often be mistaken.’ She shot a glance at Dora.
‘Perfetto!’ Madame Catalani was reminded of her manners when one of the gentlemen cleared his throat. ‘Ah sì. This is Mr Incledon.’
The beak-nosed man bowed.
‘You have a very fine tenor,’ said Miss Austen. ‘I heard you sing at a concert last year.’
Dora looked at Mr Incledon questioningly. ‘I thought you had gone separate ways with the management of Covent Garden?’ The papers had been full of him severing his relationship acrimoniously with the theatre.
He winked. ‘Don’t tell them I’m here. It is dashed convenient for rehearsing.’
‘We are practising for a concert at Vauxhall Gardens and this piano was available,’ explained the other man. ‘Charles Dignum.’ He bowed and looked hopefully to Miss Austen in expectation that his fame had also preceded him.
This time Dora was able to satisfy his vanity. ‘I’ve heard that you and Mr Incledon are leading members of the Glee Club?’ This jolly set sang ballads and popular songs in the higher class of taverns of the city, an excellent way to swell the earnings for male singers.
The two men exchanged a grin. ‘If you have a song you want sung, we’ll oblige…,’ said Mr Dignum.
‘For a contribution to the drinking fund,’ finished Incledon.
Miss Austen laughed. ‘How splendid.’
‘How may we help you, Miss Fitz-Pennington, Miss Austen?’ asked Madame Catalani. ‘I’m afraid our time for conversation is short as we are expected elsewhere, and we must practise.’
‘Of course,’ said Dora, grateful for the help steering them back to the matter at hand.
‘I’m afraid it is a rather shocking case.
We are seeking information on the late Comte and Comtesse D’Antraigues.
Our client wishes to find out why they died – what drove their killer to take that step and if he acted alone. ’
Madame Catalani looked stricken. ‘Their poor son, Julien. He must be full of questions why such a terrible thing could happen to him.’ She had leaped to the conclusion that the son was the one asking for the investigation – a logical deduction, and one which helpfully kept the banker out of the picture.
‘And poor Antoinette! Why would anyone want to do such a terrible thing to her? To go from being the top of the bill at the Paris Opéra to … to that.’ She turned to Miss Austen, providing the fictitious authoress with the background she was supposed to be collecting.
‘Her career came before my time, but it was said even the late King Louis admired her. I have been compared to her on many occasions, and I have always regarded it as the highest of compliments.’
‘I heard something about a singing school?’ said Miss Austen.
The lady smiled slightly. ‘I believe that was the idea of Her Grace the Duchess of York, but the comtesse no longer had the voice or the persistence to make much of the idea. Besides, I never saw them struggle for money. Why work? I would not if I did not have to sing for my supper, as you English say.’
‘Indeed. I visited their house,’ said Miss Austen. ‘They lacked for nothing – servants, fine artworks, and they were beautifully dressed as only the French know how.’
‘You were there?’ asked Madame Catalani. ‘Then you know as much as or more than I do.’
Her comment reminded Dora that she had not yet gained Miss Austen’s full impression of the couple they were investigating. As a woman with a sharp eye, she was a valuable source of information that Dora must not neglect.
‘I met them only once,’ demurred Miss Austen.
‘If not from performing or teaching, does anyone know where their money came from?’ asked Dora.
Mr Dignum shrugged. ‘I always assumed they had family money or jewels, enough to set them up in style when they fled the revolution.’
There were only so many gemstones one could sew into a hem or smuggle in a packing case. The family estates would have been confiscated and Dora doubted they would have been able to retrieve their wealth if, when Napoleon’s regime allowed some nobles back in favour, they had stayed away in London.
Incledon opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut.
‘Dear sir, anything you tell us will be in confidence,’ said Miss Austen, doing Dora’s job for her.
‘Perhaps I should not say this as the gentleman is dead, but I would not be the first to notice that the comte had many friends,’ said Incledon. ‘He was known to tip well for any gossip about the goings on in the government or in the households of people of influence.’
That did not look good for Henry Austen’s hopes that they could separate the double murder from any treasonous activities.
‘We saw him often at the Glee Club. My impression – my first impression’, Dignum made a bow towards Miss Austen, ‘was that he was a rackety gentleman, used to living on a lavish scale and determined to continue to do so even without the family estate to supply his spending. He was keen on entertainment and parties. It was always something of a wonder that he and the comtesse could afford to move in such exalted circles.’
‘Put it like this, if he was short to cover a round, neither of us would’ve lent him any money,’ said Mr Incledon.
‘Lord, no,’ chuckled Mr Dignum. ‘You’d never see that money again.’
They were helpfully creating a picture of an aristocratic couple who got by on the fumes of reputation long after the oil in their lamp had been exhausted.
‘We all like gossip, but were you ever worried that he was making enemies by collecting so much?’ said Dora.
‘You are asking if anyone would kill him over it?’ said Mr Incledon.
‘That was one of my questions, yes.’
‘Not to my knowledge. He collected gossip but I never heard that he passed it on indiscreetly. You wouldn’t kill someone for what they knew about you, would you, only for what they repeated.’
You’d be surprised, thought Dora.