‘Oh.’
‘François Guizot, the French foreign minister.’
My brow furrowed. ‘I don’t understand. What does this have to do with Dalgliesh?’
‘I think we’d better discuss that elsewhere, Mr Linton.’
It was only then I realized that everyone around us was listening intently. Even several people who I—up to that point—had believed didn’t speak a word of English seemed to be quite interested in our discussion. A cold shiver went down my spine.
‘You there! You! And you!’ Mr Ambrose pointed at a few of the male singers. ‘Grab this—’ He jabbed the corpse with a boot, ‘—and dispose of it. Quietly. You, Mr Linton, come with me.’
He strode away and left Claudette to translate to her colleagues that they had just been promoted from famous singers to corpse-removers.
Mr Ambrose marched me off the stage and to the closest door, which he immediately pulled open.
‘Inside!’
‘That’s a broom closet!’
‘Which means nobody will find it worthwhile to listen at the door. Inside. Now.’
I did as he ordered, and Mr Ambrose stepped in after me, closing the door behind us. I had to silently congratulate him on originality. I had envisioned quite a few scenarios that could motivate Mr Ambrose and me to sneak off into a broom closet—but discussing corpses and French politics had not been one of them.
‘What is this all about?’ I demanded of the darkness. ‘What has this Guizot fellow to do with Lord Dalgliesh?’
Mr Ambrose muttered something else in French which—this time—I was pretty sure was a curse word.
‘I was a fool! I should have seen it sooner. Guizot, as foreign minister, is the driving force between the peaceful coexistence of France and England. It was his appointment that soothed tensions and maybe even averted war in the wake of the Far East Crisis.’
I nodded. ‘Averted war. Sounds good.’
Even in the complete darkness surrounding us, I could feel the tickle of Mr Ambrose’s cool look.
‘Not for someone whose business thrives on war, and on the expansion of the British Empire, Mr Linton.’
Something went click in my head. Mr Ambrose must have felt me stiffening, because I heard him take a small step towards me.
‘Yes, Mr Linton. Dalgliesh is not at all pleased with Monsieur François Guizot. He would love for the man to simply disappear. Or maybe even die.’
I felt a cold shiver travel down my spine.
‘So what? What if he wants that politician gone? This has nothing to do with our dead man on the stage, surely?’
‘Don’t you see, Mr Linton? Guizot is protected. He rarely makes public appearances, and when he does, it is
in heavily guarded, secure government locations. He knows very well there are plenty of people who’d like nothing better than to see him dead. But there are some things a minister cannot avoid. One of them is attending his king at public events—when he holds a parade, visits the theatre, or sometimes…the opera.’
I swallowed.
‘And how many opera houses are there in Paris?’
‘Many. But few of them large and prestigious enough for people like Guizot, let alone the king. Only two come to mind. I own one of them.’
I smiled weakly into the shadows. ‘Do I get three guesses to find out who owns the other?’
‘If you need three guesses for that, Mr Linton, I have considerably overestimated your intelligence.’
I didn’t give him a sharp retort, or even a kick on the shin. My mind was still busy whirling from the implications of what he’d just told me.