The Ladies of the Secret Circus by Constance Sayers (ebook reader with internet browser TXT) 📗

“Yes,” the two men said in unison.

Barrow’s voice rose; his clipped English accent grew more pronounced. “You can sit there all day and think that you could have held her back from going, but you couldn’t have. And you wouldn’t have.”

“That fucking painting isn’t my only concern, and neither is that circus. That is all I’m saying.” Gaston folded his arms, the veins in his neck prominent. “That was your dream that you’ve chased all these years.”

Barrow looked like he was about to speak, but Ben interrupted. “Maybe it was a deranged killer—a real physical person and not some otherworldly circus run by a devil. Have either of you considered that?” He was trying to cool the situation down. In his experience, you only pieced things together when you were coolheaded. For Lara’s sake, he needed to be that now. “You have them here in Paris, too, don’t you? We need to call the police. She was chased by someone the other day—from her account it was a physical person. You can’t just assume that she’s gone and joined a daemonic circus.”

Barrow narrowed his eyes. “We have psychopaths here in Paris as well, monsieur. But the concierge saw her leave around ten forty-five.”

“So?”

“So,” said Barrow slowly, like he was trying to remain patient with a child. “From everything we know about Le Cirque Secret, performances began promptly at eleven. Always.” Barrow had given up his desk chair to Ben, who was sipping his espresso. “The empty envelope and the time being so close to eleven is a good indicator that she had a ticket.”

“This isn’t the doing of a madman or an art thief, Ben,” said Gaston. “If we went to the police, we would sound crazy. Anyway, we did call the police. We called you.”

“What did she say when you talked to her last?” Barrow directed his question to Ben.

“She assured me she wouldn’t be wandering around Paris without you both. That she wouldn’t take any chances—” As he recalled the conversation, Ben’s body felt heavy; he couldn’t speak for a moment. What if Lara disappeared as well? He was furious with her for taking chances. He nodded toward the composition books and couldn’t believe what he was about to ask next. “So this circus, if it is real, it has no physical location?”

“It does not.” Barrow tapped on the desk. “Nothing about the circus was physical. That was the problem. When Gaston called about the circus painting that Lara had, it was the first real lead that the paintings were real and that the circus, itself, had ever existed. But these books.” He laid his hand flat on them as he would on a lover. “These books are the first real indication of what went on behind the scenes. Cecile Cabot’s journals explain everything. The legend has the circus appearing only to the ticket holders who were given an address. And we know that it sounds crazy, but that’s what happened to Lara. I’m sure of it. The circus had been reaching out to her.” Barrow took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The man appeared not to have slept for days. He was unshaven, his shirt untucked and stained with coffee.

“Why?” Ben knew he had to be open to all possibilities.

Gaston nodded. “We’re aware it sounds crazy. If her great-grandmother was, indeed, Cecile Cabot, then she has a true connection to Le Cirque Secret.”

“But so would Audrey,” said Ben.

“I think Audrey is in the dark about Le Cirque Secret, or perhaps denial,” said Gaston. “There must be something special about Lara, but I don’t know what it is.”

Ben almost snorted. “And you both believe this fantastical tale?”

Gaston straightened his back. “Tell me, Ben,” he said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Back home, do you have a case right now that defies explanation?”

Ben sighed, recalling the Ouija board and the three men who had gone missing every thirty years. “I do.”

“It’s either this or a deranged lunatic.” Gaston sank back in his chair. “I’m hoping for this.”

“I’m not sure they’re mutually exclusive,” said Ben, skimming the composition book notes. “From what you’ve translated, the facts seem pretty weird. Are you sure someone wasn’t drinking too much absinthe?” There was a painting lying on the worktable.

“The Giroux, you mean? Oui,” said Gaston.

Ben walked over and lifted the canvas off the table. He could hear Barrow stirring like he was going to chastise him for not wearing gloves, but they knew Ben was furious with them for failing to keep Lara safe. Ben turned. “So this is what all the fuss is about, huh?”

“Yes,” said Barrow, looking itchy. “That was in the safe here all night. You might want to wear gloves.” He motioned to a pile of gloves next to the loupe.

“It hung on Audrey’s wall near the bathroom for decades,” said Ben, irritated. “I think it can withstand my hands.”

“Lara said she found a second one at Le Cirque de Fragonard.” Barrow seemed excited about this information, a point Ben thought was out of place given Lara’s disappearance. “I’ve been wanting to see it.”

“Is this when she was chased?” Ben placed the painting back on the table and leaned against it wearily. “And you two don’t think that’s odd? She happens upon a painting that no one else has seen, then she goes missing? Where is Le Cirque de Fragonard?”

“Near Marais.”

Ben grabbed his jacket. “Let’s go.” The espresso had jolted him awake, but his eyes were burning and he longed for a bed. That would have to wait, though.

“Here,” said Gaston, handing him a thick pile of handwritten notes. “We found this on Lara’s bed in the hotel.”

“What is it?”

“She translated the third journal. You might want to read the translation from all three journals before you say that you don’t believe any of this. She did.”

The Journal of Cecile Cabot—Book Three

June 9, 1925

While it was my suggestion, I was stopped dead in my