An agonized scream ripped Haidée from her nightmare.
It took her a moment to realize that she had not screamed and that she was sitting among the bedclothes of a guest room at the observatory of Mont Saint Filan and not sleeping amidst the feather down pillows that a besotted innkeeper had supplied her back at her stay in Étretat. But she had heard a scream. She was almost sure of it. Perhaps it was from the ghost of the dead astronomer.
During dinner, conversation had turned toward one of Renaud’s acquaintances. Apparently, he had had regular correspondence with a Danton Neville who used to work at the observatory until just about ten days ago when he committed suicide by jumping off the bluffs on the west side of the island to drown in the churning waters below leaving nothing but a pair of shoes, a hat, and a brief note that just said “Au revoir.” Renaud had claimed that he had no idea that Neville was in such a mental state that he was contemplating suicide—all of his letters to him were mostly about his recent observations about strange objects orbiting the moon and how well his research was going. And according to Everard, Neville did not exhibit any depression or paranoia before his death.
Actually, Haidée didn’t believe in ghosts except when she was playing a character who believed in them. What she did believe, though, was that sometimes the impression of a violent death could somehow affect the surroundings and those who were close to the deceased. Maybe a piece of undercooked roast duck had disturbed her sleeping patterns or perhaps the thought of someone committing suicide so recently had rattled her more than she wanted to believe.
Rattled nerves made her think of her tonic. She had taken a sip of it before going to bed, but apparently that sip wasn’t enough.
The scream pierced the air again, sharp even as it the sound passed through walls. A terrified man’s scream. And then it was cut off abruptly, making her ears ring.
Without thinking of the consequences, she tossed the blankets aside and leaped out of bed, heedless of the cold stone floor chilling the soles of her feet. Her head rebelled at the sudden movement and for a split second, she didn’t see the dark shadows of the bedroom. A bright, horrifying image flashed in her vision and she caught her breath—not sure if it was one of those eerily prophetic images that came with her headaches or merely a remnant of her nightmare that was already fading from her memory. Haidée staggered back up right and managed to make it to the door, which she pulled open.
Someone was already up with a candle in his hand, the light catching on his loose hair like a black halo. Jacot Renaud. He turned his head when he heard her door open. He frowned, causing his spectacles to slip down his nose. “Go back to bed, Mademoiselle.”
“Oh, no. I’m not going back to bed ignorant of what just happened. I heard it. I know I did. And you did too.”
“Well, the middle of the night is no time for a lady to be wandering around underdressed. Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty sleep?”
“Look who’s talking! I don’t see why I should be criticized when you’re only wearing your night clothes. And I was getting my beauty sleep when I heard that scream.”
They heard a bang from the other end of the hall and then two more doors opened, revealing two of the astronomers. Laurent Roland was busy tugging on a garish yellow-green robe embroidered with fraying gold threads over his night clothes, but he had completely forgotten his wig revealing a wrinkled, bald head. Edouard Garnier was rubbing his eyes and scrunching his face in an effort to keep awake. His gray hair was sticking straight up in a messy tuft.
“What’s going on?” Garnier yawned. “I thought I heard something.”
“Did someone let a bunch of cats in here?” demanded Roland as he tried to straighten up his robe and ended up dropping his cane.
Another door opened. Everard stomped out wearing a red night cap and matching slippers. His pudgy face was red. “Who’s making that infernal racket? If anyone is doing any experiments at this time of night, he’s going to be expelled from this august institution!”
“I’m not doing anything,” Garnier replied. He put a hand up to his mouth in a vain attempt to stifle another yawn. “I was in the middle of sleeping.”
“So was I,” claimed Roland.
“I was asleep too,” said Renaud.
The men turned to look at Haidée. She crossed her arms across her chest and scowled. “If I was the one screaming, every one of you would be deaf by now.”
There was another banging sound and then a hearty curse. Everard strolled towards one of the doors at the other end of the hallway, the second to the last before the main stairwell. The head astronomer pounded on the wood and demanded, “Open up, D’Aubigne! You’re making an infernal racket!”
The door abruptly opened, revealing the flaxen haired astronomer. He had a look of consternation on his reddened face. “I’m not making that damned racket, Everard! It’s Legard, I tell you. His girly screams woke me up from a sound sleep. I tried opening the door between our rooms, but the bastard has it locked!”
With that, Everard marched to the last door and pounded on it, yelling at Legard to unlock the door. No one answered. There was no screaming or strange thumps heard. That method exhausted, Everard commanded D’Aubigne to go to the servants’ quarters to wake Claude and Villiers to help break down the door.
As D’Aubigne hurried away and the men began discussing how best to ram the door open, Haidée spoke up. “Why don’t we try a key instead of brute force?”
They stopped talking to stare at her. “What, Mademoiselle?” Everard said stupidly. “Please, do not worry about this. You can go back to bed and let us men worry about this.”
“She does have a point,” Renaud cut in. “Don’t you have an extra key to all the rooms? Perhaps Monsieur D’Aubigne’s key would work since his room is connected to Monsieur Legard’s room.”
“All right. It does sound like a more sensible idea than breaking down the door,” admitted the head astronomer.
Roland gave a hideous cackle, revealing nothing but gums. Apparently, the teeth he had flashed during dinner had been fake. “Oh ho, the great Everard bested by a woman. Perhaps we should offer her a position as a theoretical scientist?”
Garnier tried to hide a smile by yawning again.
Everard shot the old man a warning look.
Haidée managed a sly smile. “Why Monsieur Roland, you shouldn’t make fun of me so. I am an actress, so it is quite plausible that I may be able to act like a theoretical scientist, but that doesn’t mean that I would produce any research that would be useful to the scientific establishment.”
“Actually, I don’t think that would be such a disadvantage,” Roland mused. “Theoretical scientists do a lot of hand waving anyway. Much like actors, I suppose. Don’t you agree, Monsieur Renaud?”
At Everard’s spluttering, Renaud replied tactfully, “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t much occasion lately to attend the theatre. I’m afraid that Mademoiselle Avenall is my only example. And the only hand waving she’s done is to crack a fan. Or to pull out a bottle of her special medication.”
“I have not cracked a fan,” Haidée retorted. “You haven’t seen me with a fan. And if I were to crack one, which I have never done in my entire life, it would be over your hard head.”