The Counterfeit Heiress (17 page)

“Apologies for the disturbance, Mademoiselle Lamar, but we have a problem.”

11

All things considered, the priest let me off lightly. He steered me deftly through the Ten Commandments—I did not fail to notice what could only be described as a sigh of relief when I assured him I had not violated the fifth and can only say in my defense that while I would have expected that implied judgment stemming from my having cut the queue had I been in England, to find it in one of Gallic sensibilities was a surprise—and assured me the penance he assigned was next to nothing. I was not, however, released without a stern lecture on my attitude about the fourth commandment. Obviously, the holy man had never met my mother.

When I was ready to leave the church, he exited in advance of me, and searched the place Saint-Germain-des-Prés for the auburn-haired man. Assuring me the miscreant was nowhere in sight, he insisted on ushering me across the street and to Cécile’s house. He refused my friend’s offer of refreshment, reminded her that he looked forward to seeing her at Sunday mass, and wished me all the best. I thanked him profusely for his assistance.

Colin paced as I recounted my story. “It is a stroke of luck that his hair color makes him easy to spot.”

“The mustache is a sight to behold.” Jeremy handed me a glass of port and I did not refuse it. People of quality might insist that it was a sin—venial, perhaps, but a sin nonetheless—to take port before dinner, but I felt the circumstances justified my choice of beverage. “He certainly stands out in a crowd.”

“That works to our benefit.”

“Monsieur Hargreaves, you must stop pacing. I am growing dizzy watching you.”

Colin honored Cécile’s request, but did not sit. He leaned against the wall, crossing his feet at his ankles and his arms across his broad chest. Brutus tugged at the hem of his trousers, wanting to play. Colin removed the little creature and, as Caesar already occupied Cécile’s, dropped him onto my lap. “My contacts here in Paris have written up the necessary authorizations to give us access to Monsieur Pinard’s records. Scotland Yard report having identified a deposit of £10 into Mary Darby’s bank account from one belonging to Mademoiselle Lamar—”

“Our connection!”

“Yes, Emily. Our connection. I am afraid, Cécile, this suggests your friend may be embroiled in something most troubling.”

“Do you believe her to be in danger?”

“That is impossible to know at the moment,” Colin replied. “I hope Monsieur Pinard’s records will elucidate the matter. That Mademoiselle Lamar is involved cannot be denied. Cécile has studied every letter purported to have been penned by Estella that is currently in our possession. Each of them—the one to Worth, the ones the servants have received, and even a handful sent to Mr. Bennett—appear to match what Cécile recognizes as her friend’s handwriting. It is not a scientific conclusion and we must still bear in mind that all of these documents could be forgeries.”

“My own analysis of the photos sent by Mr. Bennett is equally unsatisfying. Estella’s face is obscured in every single one of them.” I consulted my notebook. “They are always taken in front of a well-known monument—the Taj Mahal, the pyramids at Giza, the Acropolis—and show Estella from a distance, which renders her features all but unrecognizable. Her hair is always dark enough, her figure of the right proportions, but none of them constitute what could be described as a reliable record.”

“Other than having found a most excellent cravat at a charming shop in the rue de Rivoli, I was not useful in the least today.” Jeremy slouched in his chair. “I warn you to expect much the same tomorrow.”

“That will not be allowed.” I tore a page from my notebook and handed it to him. “This is a list of all the people cited as living in Paris who were quoted in Mr. Bennett’s articles about Estella. They each purport to have seen her abroad. Find out their addresses, call on them, and determine exactly what they know about her.”

“I shall accompany you, Bainbridge,” Cécile said. “Between the two of us, there is not a house in the city to which we will not be able to gain admission.”

By the time dinner was announced, we had our strategies for the following day mapped in detail, and were welcoming the prospect of an evening spent in the genial company of our friends. We dined well—Cécile would stand for nothing less—and took port and cigars in the library, where I presented Jeremy with a copy of
Great Expectations.
I should not have been surprised Cécile owned an English edition; she deplored reading in translation. Jeremy made an admirable show of reading it, at least until he nodded off over the book. When at last we retired to bed, I was anticipating a pleasant interlude with my husband, and on this count Colin never disappointed. I felt as if I had been asleep for only a few minutes when I started at the sound of tapping on our bedroom door.

Colin, in a swift movement—the man moves with graceful ease even when half asleep—leapt from the bed and slid into his dressing gown. “Our servants at home know better than to disturb us in the middle of the night. A little earlier and this intrusion would have caused quite a scene.”

On the other side of the door stood one of Cécile’s footmen, his white wig askew on his head and his livery jacket pulled over his nightclothes. “Delivery for Lady Emily, sir. Urgent, I imagine, or it wouldn’t have been left at this hour.”

Colin nodded his thanks and took from the man a package of indeterminate shape. He closed the door, deposited it on a table, and flipped on the lights. I had remained abed, the blankets pulled up to my chin, and now reached for my own dressing gown. Standing beside my husband, I started to open the parcel. Colin looked at me as if about to issue a caution, then raised his hands as if helpless. “I suppose you may as well.”

I had identified the contents almost the moment I had approached the table. The long shape, coupled with the loosely wrapped tissue paper, gave away the game. “Flowers.” White lilies spilled out of the paper when I tore it. I wrinkled my nose. “We shall be overwhelmed by the scent.” I gathered them up, ready to fling them from the nearest window—although knowing I would regret the action not only for having discarded what might be a clue, but also for the mess that would greet the gardener in the morning—and saw an envelope beneath them. I slit it open and pulled out a small card with a simple typewritten message:

I KNOW WHERE TO FIND YOU.

With a sigh, I dropped it onto the table, gathered up the flowers, wrapped them back in their paper, and placed them in the corridor outside our door. “I was not so clever as I hoped.” I closed the door behind me. “He must have hidden, waiting for me to leave the church, and probably had no difficulty eluding the priest.”

“It would have been impossible to prevent. You succeeded at protecting yourself and not allowing him to confront you when you were alone. There was nothing else to be done in the circumstances.”

We summoned the sleepy servant, who told us that neither he, nor anyone else in the house, had caught sight of the person who had left the mysterious package. The first—and only—indication of his arrival had been the bell from the front door that awakened the footman. By the time he opened the door, there was no one there. The parcel had been left on the stoop.

“I did not delay, but had to dress in some fashion before going downstairs. You saw for yourself, Monsieur Hargreaves, that I had not dallied over my toilette.” He was emphatic on this point. “I am most sorry for not having been quicker. Had I arrived more rapidly, I might have seen something.”

“Do not trouble yourself with such thoughts,” Colin said. “It is almost certain that the individual carrying the flowers deposited them, rang the bell, and fled immediately. He did not want to be seen.”

The footman had collected the flowers from where I had placed them in the corridor and I reached to take them from him. “What time is it?” I asked.

“After three in the morning,” my husband replied.

“These are quite fresh. I wonder what time deliveries to the markets begin.”

“There are no markets open right now, Emily.”

“I am well aware of that, but it is conceivable that suppliers may have already started gathering their wares.” Colin took the flowers from me, returned them to the footman, whom he dismissed, and, once our door was closed again, guided me back to bed, first discarding what he referred to as my redundant dressing gown. “If we are forced to be awake at this hour, we are not going to spend our time discussing flower merchants.”

*   *   *

It was all very well for Colin to dismiss my questions about the source of the flowers. He may even have been correct in his—very firmly expressed—belief that it would be impossible for us to track their origin. His subsequent attentions to my person left me quite incapable of arguing with him, a fact I was quick to point out the following morning over breakfast.

“Are you issuing a complaint?” His dark eyes danced over a cup of coffee.

I raised an eyebrow. “I see that you have been forced to reject tea in favor of something stronger. Are you not well rested after last night?”

“So no complaint?”

I wished Cécile were awake so that I might more easily change the subject, but was saved from having to reply to this undignified question by Jeremy’s arrival. “Hargreaves! You look almost as bad as I. What a comforting sight.” He heaped eggs onto a plate and topped them with three croissants. “I hardly slept what with all the noise.”

“Noise?” I asked, blushing.

“I thought it must be feral cats at first, but then I realized I have not the slightest idea what feral cats sound like. Then I thought Cécile had an admirer trying to attract her attention from beneath her window.” He took a large bite of eggs and chewed thoroughly, swallowing before he continued. “When I remembered that, unlike mine, her bedroom faces the back of the house, that explanation failed me as well. In the end I was forced to drag myself from my bed and look out my own window.”

“What did you find?” Colin held up his cup to the footman who had appeared with a fresh pot of coffee. “An admirer of your own?”

“I assure you, Hargreaves, no lady of my acquaintance would deign to place herself beneath my window and more’s the pity for it. No, what I saw was a flower man in his delivery wagon making a clatter that ought to be illegal at that time of night.”

“Did he have auburn hair?” I asked. “What time was this?”

“I don’t know what time it was—surely you do not expect me to be consulting timepieces in the middle of the night? And you cannot mean to suggest that the gentleman you described having seen in Café de Flore doubles as merchant? Even I can identify that as far-fetched, Em. No, it was not he. Well, at least not so far as I could tell. It was dark and I didn’t get a good look at him. By the time I got to the window, he was driving away.”

“So much for stealth.” So far as I was concerned, this lack of finesse confirmed his identity as the auburn-haired man. He had exhibited the same qualities in Café de Flore. I shared these thoughts with Colin and Jeremy. My husband did not dismiss them, although Jeremy only just managed not to roll his eyes.

“Was his suit ill-fitting?” he asked.

“It was not. He had every appearance of a gentleman. Although he could not be described as fashionable, his clothes were well made, but the mud on his boots nagged at me. Perhaps they revealed the residue of his employment.”

“Gentlemen are not employed.” Jeremy wiped his lips with a napkin. “Flower merchants do not spend their afternoons in cafés. There is an order to things, Em.”

“Although it pains me to do so, Emily, I am afraid I must support Bainbridge’s beliefs on this matter. Had he got a look at the man’s face we might be in an altogether different situation.”

“I shan’t argue with either of you. Regardless of the identity of the driver of the wagon, I hope you can agree that it is reasonable to surmise that the auburn-haired man—we really must find a better way to refer to him, but I am not yet certain that he is Magwitch—is behind the delivery.”

“Yes.” Colin nodded. “That much is evident.”

“Was anything written on the side of the wagon?” I asked.

Jeremy produced, with a flourish, a scrap of paper from his pocket. “I knew you would ask, Em.
Swiveller.
”

“The Old Curiosity Shop.”
Colin set down his coffee. “Dick Swiveller, I believe, though I can’t say I remember anything else about him.”

“I never much liked the book,” I said, “but I do recall that Mr. Swiveller was something of a hero. Good, at least.”

“Perhaps we should rename the auburn-haired man after the author,” Jeremy suggested. “We could call him Charlie.”

“There is no need to further confuse the situation,” Colin said. “Bainbridge, leave the social calls to Cécile today. She can handle them without you. Instead find out whatever you can about Swiveller.”

“How am I to do that?”

“Make inquiries at flower shops. Either Swiveller is a supplier or a florist with his own shop. It should not be difficult to determine which.”

“And if I locate an address, am I to go there on my own?” Jeremy pushed away from the table. “I may joke otherwise, but I am here to assist, Hargreaves. Nonetheless, I am well aware that my lack of experience may prove an impediment. How should I proceed if I find Swiveller?”

Colin sat, silent, for a moment. I could only assume he was in a state of shock at having heard Jeremy speak with such measured reason and intelligence. My husband, capable of adapting to nearly any situation, quickly reacquired the ability to speak. “You impress me, Bainbridge. If you find them, you might pay the shop a visit, but only to buy flowers. Do not risk asking any questions that might suggest you suspect there to be a connection between Swiveller and anything to do with our current case.”

“Perhaps it would be best if I limited my investigations to the outside of the premises.”

“An excellent idea.” Colin rose to his feet. “Emily, are you finished? Monsieur Pinard is expecting us.”

*   *   *