‘That prop looks pretty special.’
Gerard puffed up. ‘It’s for the Festival of the Supreme Being,’ he explained. ‘Specially commissioned by Robespierre himself. It’s happening in a few days, if you’ve somehow missed the posters everywhere.’
‘But why a mountain?’ she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her as she ran her hand over a faux crag.
‘It’s symbolic. The Revolutionaries rule the National Convention, so they will rule over the festival from the mountain top.’ Gerard gave a smug smile. ‘That is the calibre of patron we attract, you see. Only the very top.’
Al pulled her arm. ‘So fascinating. We’ll be getting on our way.’
They passed the back of one wing through a door, tucked under the thunder-run where cannonballs were rolled down a series of slopes to create the sound of thunder.
‘Who’s Alexander?’ she hissed, giving Al a sideways look.
‘Call it a nom d’espionage. Don’t exactly need to broadcast that a wanted aristocrat is free and alive, wandering around Paris.’
‘I didn’t think.’
He scoffed. ‘Please, give me a little credit. Just because you think I’m bad at what I do, doesn’t mean I actually am.’
Beyond was a corridor, and a series of doors with name cards in place. They stopped at one labelledLéonand Al gave a rhythmic series of raps before going in.
The room was lavishly decorated with rugs and screens and paper fans. Léon was an attractive man, a couple of years older than Al, with a firm jaw and grey-green eyes. Camille could see how he was Gerard’s star turn.
He greeted Al with a smile as Al slid onto his lap to kiss him.
‘Darling, why have you brought a spectator? I told you, I don’t give private performances.’
Al pulled away long enough to wave Camille over. ‘Alas, Camille is a theatrical heathen and has absolutely no idea who you are.’
Léon looked at her with one brow finely arched. ‘How refreshing.’
‘I do know that you’re someone with information,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘Information we’d pay well for.’
‘Is she always like this?’ Léon asked Al.
Al nodded. ‘All business. Better just tell her what she wants and make her go away.’
Léon sighed and tipped Al off his lap. He crossed the room to a squat set of drawers and took out a snuffbox. ‘Very well, then. Aloysius said you were interested in news of the Duc de l’Aubespine.’
‘Or someone calling himself that.’
‘Well, you’re in luck. He’s not a visitor to this theatre – or any theatre – but one of my patrons is a medical man and had heard of him. Seems he was a minor noble who used his money to fund his anatomy hobby. Never any success as a practising physician, thought himself too rich to slog it out at the medical schools with the riffraff, but had the king’s favour so ended up as the court’s pet scientist. Bit of a crank, by all accounts. Self-professed visionary without the talent to back it up, that sort of thing. It’s said he packed up and fled north when the king lost his head, but appears that was a false alarm. Been spotted out in the Faubourg Saint Martin.’ He offered Camille the snuffbox, then when she shook her head, passed it to Al. ‘Anyway, what do you want with him?’
Camille shifted her weight. ‘Better for you if you don’t know.’
Léon laughed. ‘Oh, you are charming.’
‘Faubourg Saint Martin, you said?’
‘Yes. Slinking about the Saint-Lazare prison, I believe. Rumour has it he was asking for the bodies of dead prisoners.’
‘Oh?’
‘Standard anatomist practice. Hard to scrounge enough bodies to experiment on through legitimate means. They usually leave off in summer – can you imagine trying to dissect a body rotting faster than you can cut it? But this year the body snatchers say they’re doing a brisk trade.’
Al and Camille exchanged a glance.
‘Do you know who they’re selling to?’ asked Al.
