“Please do,” I said.
“We feel protective of her, milady. She never had an easy time of it.”
“How so?” I asked.
“I couldn’t explain it precisely, but she didn’t seem like other young ladies. Never much liked being around people her own age. Always preferred being alone or with her mother, and of course her mother was not much at home, so she often seemed lonely.”
“Was there tension between Miss Lamar and her parents?” I asked.
“No, milady. Her father spoiled her and her mother coddled her.”
“Did they spend much time in London?” I asked.
“They came three times a year without exception until their deaths and always brought their daughter.”
“Would you object to our taking a look around the house?” I asked. Estella may not have been in it for years, but I held out hope that its furnishings and her possessions might give us some insight into why the murdered woman had chosen to impersonate her. The butler hesitated, but in the end acquiesced, leaving us to explore. Two hours later, Cécile and I emerged without having found any hint of clarity. The house, though beautifully furnished, was void of all personality save for its owner’s large collection of porcelain dolls, which were displayed, their glass eyes staring, in a dim and crowded room off the nursery. I was all too happy to close the door on them.
Estella
ii
Despite being of an age when most young ladies were married and settled, Estella identified herself an orphan. She missed her parents dreadfully, or so she said, over and over, primarily to her dolls. It was true her mother had stopped telling her stories years ago, and that she had rarely seen her father, although he had continued to present dolls to her on occasion, which should have suggested to her just how little he knew about his daughter. Jewelry would have been more appropriate at this stage in her life. Furthermore, Estella could not deny the fact that her parents’ deaths had come with an unexpected benefit—now that they were gone, no one expected her to move in society, at least not for a while. This was a revelation. Estella could stay holed up at home without anyone pressuring her to go out. Instead, she was lauded for her daughterly devotion and for taking so seriously the period of mourning intended to honor her mother and father.
The family solicitor, also the executor of her parents’ estate, took practical matters in hand for her. Estella was past the age that would have required a guardian, but Monsieur Pinard had been able to tell almost at once that she would need a great deal of assistance when it came to managing her inheritance, particularly as her father’s will had caused deep consternation among her half siblings. The inheritance law, droit de succession, required that an estate be divided into two parts: the réserve légale, which must be split equally among the deceased’s children, and the quotité disponible, which could be disposed of without limitations.
Estella and her four siblings shared the réserve légale, each of them receiving an equal portion of seventy-five percent of the enormous fortune their father had amassed in his lifetime. The remaining twenty-five percent he gave in its entirety to Estella. Compounding the matter was the fact that his wife, the dreaded stepmother, had been given in her marriage settlement all of the family’s material possessions: the houses in London and Paris, the villa in the south of France, jewelry, art, and furnishings. As Estella was her mother’s only child, she had inherited it all, much to the consternation of her half brothers and half sisters.
Monsieur Pinard could offer no explanation to the frustrated and angry heirs as to why their father had not given them a portion beyond what the law required; Monsieur Lamar had not given him one. The will was sound, and despite their best attempts, the children of the first Lamar marriage could not break it. Once forced to accept this, they turned their attention to their much younger half sister. Surely Estella could be persuaded to share.
They descended upon her a month after the courts ruled against them, smothering her with compliments and treats and invitations, not understanding that Estella could not bear such overtures. She used mourning as an excuse to put off receiving them and began to isolate herself more and more in the house in Paris. Only her dear friend, Cécile du Lac, was allowed to call, and then only when the visit was prearranged.
Cécile, newly out of mourning for her not-lamented husband, refused to let Estella remove herself from the world. Instead, she brought her books to read, primarily accounts of travel and exploration, believing they might kindle in Estella an interest in the world. She persuaded Estella, gently at first, and then with some force, to become part of the society Cécile had started carving out for herself, introducing her to artists and writers, dancers and composers. Much to her surprise, Estella found comfort in their presence. Like her, they seemed to keep parts of themselves private, although unlike her, they revealed bits in their creative endeavors. Estella had no creative endeavors to share.
As time passed, all of her siblings save one left her more or less alone. Their inheritances, though not as large as they might have liked, gave them enough capital to provide an exceedingly generous annual income. For three years, François, older than Estella by more than a dozen years, never let a month go by without appearing at her house, insisting that he wanted nothing more than to know better his baby sister. Estella never trusted his intentions, but eventually did allow him to dine with her on occasion. He did not object to hearing her tell those old stories of her mother’s, and for that she was grateful, whatever his motives.
Estella’s world might have continued like this for the remainder of her life had she not met someone different from the rest. This individual needed her in a way she had not previously considered. Romance had never interested her, but as she listened to the laments of her bohemian friends, she became increasingly fascinated by commerce and finance, two things that seemed to constantly plague them. She had more money than she could spend in a lifetime, and she wanted to do something with it. Not simply charity, but business. She wanted to invest, but not the way her father had. Her friends would not let her buy shares in their work—such a thing was anathema to artists and their ilk. Cécile’s compatriots could barely tolerate the old idea of patrons. So Estella turned her head in another direction, and asked Monsieur Pinard for assistance.
For six months, the stalwart solicitor sent myriad investment options to his client. None met her satisfaction. Estella did not want to merely own a piece of a company, she wanted to feel as if she were helping to create a world, but it did not seem that businessmen understood what she meant by that until the day a businessman turned up on her doorstep, confident that he could change the world and become rich by Christmas. He knew without doubt that no one else could offer what Estella Lamar had.
He had spotted Estella in a café, where she was dining with an extremely elegant lady and several ragtag artists. Although she laughed when it was more or less appropriate and smiled when circumstances merited it, he could tell she was an outsider, not wholly comfortable. Her clothing, though unfashionable, was of the finest fabrics, and her jewelry suggested she was in possession of a not inconsiderable fortune. All this combined with her lack of ease with her friends told him she was vulnerable. He followed her home that night, and stood outside a mansion that surpassed his every hope. Estella Lamar could change his world in an instant, and she hardly need notice she was doing it.
3
Colin was not yet home when Cécile and I returned from the Lamar residence, so we had time to visit the boys in the nursery before rendezvousing with him and catching each other up on all we had learned. Our twins, Henry and Richard, were toddling about now, chasing after Tom, our ward, who was a bit older than they. Tom had come to us soon after his birth, his mother a young woman I had considered a friend until I discovered she had committed the heinous crime of murder—a murder that, up until then, I had believed she was helping me to investigate. The sensational nature of the case had caused a stir throughout the Continent and worked
its way back to England, and we knew we could not hide the details, particularly as some of the individuals involved (I refer to my erstwhile nemesis, Emma Callum) insisted on revealing the identity of the child’s mother. The subsequent newspaper coverage destroyed any chance of keeping the story quiet. As a result, Colin and I had decided to face the challenge head-on, and refused to let anyone disparage Tom. My husband, upon hearing disapproving murmurs in his club, let it be known he was not opposed to the idea of a duel to defend the honor of his adopted son. He is an excellent shot; all whispers ceased at once. I, being no stranger to staring down the dragons of Mayfair, had no problem keeping the ladies of society politely in line. No one ought to blame a child for his parent’s sins. Furthermore, his share of our fortune would ensure he would have no difficulty gaining the approval of any mother hoping to see her daughter well settled when the time came.
Our boys challenged two of Cécile’s long-held official positions. First, that she believed no man alive could prove interesting before age forty. Second, that she found children sticky and generally reprehensible. She had avoided her own nieces and nephews with deft skill until they turned twenty, insisting to her sister, their mother, that no one could be depended upon to be rational before then and that she had no inclination for dealing with anyone so lacking in mental capacity.
Cécile did not visit when the boys were babies. Infants, she said, were not to be borne. Now, though, she had succumbed to her desire to see me, or at least to lay eyes upon my husband, whom she considered (rightly) to be the most handsome man on earth, and was forced to deal with the presence of the children in the house. She had traveled with her two small dogs, Brutus and Caesar, upon whom she doted. I resisted the temptation to point out their similarities to small children. Cécile had always favored Caesar, considering this a way of making up for the historical injustices suffered by his namesake at Brutus’s instigation. When we first had Nanny bring the boys down to meet her, they ignored Cécile and went straight for the dogs. While Tom and Richard adored Brutus, Henry pounced on Caesar at once. Despite her best intentions, Cécile was unable to view this as anything less than proof of Henry’s superior intelligence. She wanted to hire a Latin tutor for him on the spot. I did not allow this, of course, not because of his age, but because I believe children ought to have a firm grip on Greek before moving on to the study of Latin. Cécile only shrugged and abandoned the scheme. Before long, she was taken with all three of the boys and considered herself their second mother.
“It is unforgiveable, Kallista, that you should have offspring who insist on being so charming,” Cécile said as we returned to the library so that Nanny might put the boys down for a nap. “I do not need this sort of distraction.”
“Enjoy them while you can,” I said. “They’ll be off to school before you know it.”
“They are not yet two years old.”
“They are barely past one, but their father registered them at Eton almost the moment they were born. You have twelve years to enjoy them if he doesn’t change his mind about leaving their early education to tutors.”
“I do not like your English boarding schools,” Cécile said.
“I should have thought you want them sent away at eight, not to be seen again until they’re finished with university.”
“I shall not respond to such a statement.”
I suppressed a smile and rang for Davis, requesting tea for me and champagne for Cécile, who refused to drink anything else. Colin returned just as the butler did with our libations, and opened the wine himself, his face grim.
“No one has come forward to identify the body,” he said, filling Cécile’s glass, “and there are as yet no missing persons reports that match her description.”
“Perhaps she has no family,” I said. “Surely someone will miss her eventually?”
“One would hope so,” Colin said, taking the cup of tea I poured for him. “The weather was quite warm last night, and that has a tendency to bring out the worst sort of violence in people. It’s entirely possible she was nothing more than a random victim.”
“I noticed her headdress wasn’t missing,” I said, “but I don’t recall if she was wearing any other jewelry.”
“Her bow and arrows were gone. There was one jewel-encrusted golden cuff on her left wrist, none on the other.”
I closed my eyes and tried to remember seeing her at the ball. “I am certain she had them on both arms.”
“Kallista is correct,” Cécile said. “I took note of them when I confronted her. She also wore a matching choker. I do not think, however, that any of them was genuine. The stones looked like paste.”
“You are certain?” Colin asked.
Cécile shrugged. “I am no jeweler, but am confident in what I saw. Surely your police friends can draw a conclusion from the remaining bracelet?”
“Yes,” I said. “Regardless, a random thief would have taken them and tried to pawn them. He wouldn’t necessarily know their value.”
“He may have left the second bracelet for any number of reasons,” Colin said. “I presume he intended to take everything she had that might prove valuable, but he may have heard someone approaching and decided to run.”
“Why was she pretending to be Estella?” Cécile asked. “There must be some clue in her clothing or the location where she was killed.”
“I am afraid not, Cécile,” Colin said. “There is no evidence at this point to make us think this was anything other than a robbery gone wrong.”
“Why would a woman dressed like that run all the way to the river?” I asked. “She knew her guise was up at the party, but if she had gone as a lark, she needn’t have run so far. The Duke of Devonshire certainly wasn’t going to rush after her.”
“Until we know who she is, I am afraid there’s nothing to connect her to Miss Lamar,” Colin said. “We must consider the possibility that Miss Lamar herself hired her as a joke. I have already sent a cable to her last known hotel.”
“I shouldn’t expect a reply,” I said. “Forgive me, Cécile, but your friend is a strange woman. I am all for adventurous travel, but Miss Lamar seems to have taken it to an extreme.”
“Emily, that is hardly charitable,” Colin said. “Her parents are dead, she’s estranged from her siblings, and she has no husband. Why shouldn’t she travel the world?”
“I do not object to that in the least. What I find odd is that her house in London is left fully staffed and open, despite the fact that she hasn’t set foot in it for more than twenty years. That, my dear husband, strikes me as exceedingly bizarre and has made me consider the idea of her travels in a different light. It is almost as if she is running away from something.”
“She has little to keep her in Paris,” Cécile said. “I should very much like to know the state of her home there. Is it fully staffed and ready at all times for her imminent arrival?”
“We should go to Paris and see,” I said.
“No.” Colin crossed his arms. “Absolutely not. We shall remain here and investigate the only case we have before us. Estella Lamar may be disturbed, eccentric, or on the run, but so far as we know she has broken no laws and is in no need of assistance. I suggest, Cécile, that you contact her solicitor if you are worried about her. I telephoned him this morning to find out his client’s whereabouts, and while he was in possession of only limited information, he did not seem concerned in the slightest about her.”
“You are right of course, Monsieur Hargreaves,” Cécile said, “as a man of your ethereal beauty ought to be. Estella’s travels have long disturbed me, in part, I believe, because I consider myself responsible for them. It was I who filled her head with thoughts of exotic locales and adventure. She was so bleak after her parents died, and I wanted to draw her back out into the world. When she left for Egypt, I felt guilty, knowing that she had until then preferred to be at home and alone. I worried that I pressured her to do something she was not entirely comfortable with.”
“She w
as comfortable enough to continue traveling for two decades,” Colin said. “If anything, she owes you profound thanks for having rescued her from what sounds like a rather depressing life.”
“And I am certain she is not alone, Cécile,” I said. “She must have companions with her. I remember the picture of her in the papers when she was standing in front of the Taj Mahal. There was another lady with her, as well as two native guides.”
“You were not worried about her before last night,” Colin said. “It is understandable that you are a bit unnerved now, but there is no reason to think the murder is connected to your friend. Should I learn anything to the contrary, I promise you will be the first to know.”
“After Kallista, I hope,” Cécile said, her eyes sparkling. “You must always tell her first. To do otherwise is a disaster in marriage.”
Colin laughed. “Are you an expert, Cécile? I thought you were opposed to the whole institution.”
“In theory I am. I like to believe, however, that the two of you are a worthy exception.”
A few hours later, Davis interrupted us to announce a man from Scotland Yard to see Colin. A landlord had come forward and identified the body found near Lambeth Bridge as his tenant, Mary Darby. He had gone to the police after having read a description in the newspaper of the murdered woman.
Colin and I immediately set off to interview the man. His building, in a decent middle-class neighborhood, was clean and neat, lacking altogether in charm, but serviceable. Mary’s rooms were on the top floor, up four flights of steep and narrow stairs, with a satisfying view of London’s rooftops out two small windows.
“You do not live in the building?” Colin asked, after the man had unlocked the door for us.
“No, sir, my wife and I have a house in St. John’s Wood.”
I left them to talk while I looked over every inch of Mary Darby’s bedroom. There was hardly a speck of dust on any of the surfaces, and the floor was so clean it shined; a poignant reminder of how recently the flat’s occupant had tended to her housekeeping. All of her possessions were well organized and neat. I dropped onto my hands and knees to look under the bed and pulled from beneath it a large box.
The Counterfeit Heiress: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries) Page 3