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Lily felt her skin tingle with revulsion as she turned back to Grace who tutted, saying, “I’ll get yer dry boots an’ then yer can tell me wot brings yer ’ere.”
“I would like to see Celeste if I could,” Lily managed. Though what help Celeste would be, she had no idea. Still…
Grace regarded her dubiously. “I don’t know as she wants ter see anyone ternight, miss,” she said softly. “Celeste ain’t too welcomin’, at the best o’ times.”
“And this is not the best of times?” Lily enquired, before pressing her. “Have you noticed any change in her over the past couple of months?”
Grace’s glance flickered as she looked up from lacing Lily into sturdier boots that belonged to one of the young ladies, but which she’d said Lily could return to her before they’d be missed.
“Now as yer mention it, miss, she were nevva one ter say much. But these days she says even less.” She shrugged. “The uvver girls says she ’as tickets on ’erself an’ finks she’s better’n the rest o’ em. Me, though?” She contemplated the matter. “I reckon she’s scared.”
“Scared?”
“Of a gennulman. Sometimes it ’appens that a gennulman ’urts a girl. Madame won’t ’ave any o’ that, but ’tis the kind o’ look Miss Celeste gets in ’er eye when—”
“Grace! What are you doing chattering like a blackbird when I asked you to bring me a cordial more than ten minutes ago?”
It was one of the other women whom Lily recognised though not by name. But as she went on her way with barely a glance at Lily, and as the staircase that led to the bedroom floors was empty, Lily decided to take her chances and see for herself if Celeste would speak to her.
The night had drained her; Mr Montpelier’s words had rattled her, and the cold and damp of the cellar had stripped away what little was left of her resources.
But there was warmth and familiarity at Madame Chambon’s.
Tapping three times upon Celeste’s door, the young woman opened it after a muffled invitation to do so, and then was greeted by Celeste’s clear outrage as the girl rose from her dressing table, her sheer tea gown falling about her shoulders, revealing a bare breast and slender hips.
Clearly, she’d been expecting someone else, and, indeed, she was dressed to entertain a gentleman.
Lily advanced into the room. “What have you not told me about Mr Renquist?” she asked softly, hoping Celeste was frightened enough to admit everything she knew, rather than take objection to Lily’s presence. Lily knew from experience that disturbances were summarily dealt with. A shout, a cry, and the beefy minders who ensured the safety of Madame Chambon’s girls would materialise upon the instant.
“Get out!” Celeste held herself up like a pencil, an arm outstretched and pointing towards the door. “You have no cause to intrude and imperil my ability to earn a living.”
“You do know what happened to Mr Renquist, but you’re not saying anything.” Lily’s mind was churning as she made the accusation. “Or, at least, you have your suspicions, but have kept quiet. Tell me, Celeste.”
The other young w
oman’s look was mutinous; her mouth set in a hard line as she retained her Valkyrie-like stance. “If you don’t leave this instant, I’ll have you forcibly removed.”
“One of your consorts was responsible, wasn’t he? Jealousy? Is that why?” Lily shrugged, puzzling it out on the spot. “You weren’t responsible, Celeste, but you know who was. Or you have your suspicions, don’t you? Otherwise, you’d not have been so evasive when I asked you before. You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
“I’m not afraid of anything. Nor am I guilty of anything.”
“But you know who did it? You know who killed an innocent man. And you continue to consort with the killer.”
Celeste’s fury was so palpable, that despite everything, Lily felt a jolt of satisfaction. She had come here on nothing more than a hunch, and certainly on the spur of the moment, but now she was about to solve the mystery.
And if she solved the mystery, she would be lauded for her discovery. She’d present compelling evidence to the Metropolitan Police, or a magistrate. Or perhaps to Mr Montpelier, and persuade him that a grand reveal with tickets at twice the price would make her too valuable to discard.
“Don’t be afraid, Celeste.” She softened her tone. “Just tell me—”
She stopped, not because Celeste had just picked up a pot of face cream with the clear intention of hurling it at her head, but because the door suddenly opened behind her, knocking her forwards.
She stumbled a few steps, shaken by the malice on Celeste’s face, that was quickly followed by horror.
A sickening horror she shared when she gazed upon the visage of the white-haired gentleman now staring at her, seemingly with incomprehension.
“What a surprise, madam,” he said in thickly accented English as surprise turned to satisfaction. “Our amateur sleuth who communes with the spirits has come to take me to task, has she?” He was blocking the doorway, and so close Lily could smell the brandy on his beard and the fragrant tobacco he smoked. But his bulbous eyes had the greatest impact. For they gleamed at her with a strange satisfaction; and she knew that he meant to do her harm, unless she quit the room before he could wrap his meaty hands about her throat.
Ducking beneath his outstretched arm, she darted for the door, squealing when he clutched at her hair and yanked her into his clutches. Fortunately, the pounding of feet heralded the arrival of one of the brothel heavies who jerked Lily away.
