The Counterfeit Heiress: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries)

by Tasha Alexander

  Scared and now in a not inconsiderable amount of pain, Estella retreated to a corner of the room, wedging her body between the wall and the side of the slab, closing herself in even more than she had been before. She hugged her knees to her chest and wept until she had no more tears. Then, an even more unnerving sensation seized her: numbness. She rocked forward and back, keeping an even rhythm, gripping her hands more tightly around her legs. The candle, which she had moved to sit on the floor directly in front of her, flickered, and Estella wondered if she ought to blow it out, in order to conserve it. Conserve it for what? She stopped rocking, and leaned back against the wall just as a sound invaded the space around her. Scraping and the hint of a squeak, the sort made by hinges recently oiled, but not quite enough.

  The stone that did not match on the ceiling was upright now, forming a trapdoor through which a ladder appeared. Estella leaped to her feet, then crouched back down. Was this a portent of rescue or something direr? She swallowed hard, buried her face in her hands, and steeled her nerves before forcing herself to stand again. This might be her only chance at escape. She readied herself to charge the person whose feet had just appeared at the top of the ladder.

  7

  The hansom cab took us past St. Paul’s and across London Bridge to Southwark, where the seventeenth-century building that served as the current incarnation of the George Inn stood in Borough High Street. Colin paid our fare and we entered the building, asking to see the man in charge. Mr. Blakely, who introduced himself as such, was everything one would hope to find in an innkeeper. His countenance was jolly and welcoming, and his happily rotund figure made one hope the food at his establishment was better than average. He complimented me on my hat—a jaunty little thing of which I was rather fond—and thanked Colin for having chosen to visit what he promised was the last authentic galleried inn in all of London. He leaned forward to me, confiding that Shakespeare himself had been a great admirer of the ale at the old inn, which stood on the same spot until it was destroyed by fire.

  “I fear we are here on Crown business rather than pleasure,” Colin said, explaining his position and some brief details about the case at hand, including the information that had led us to him. “Is Mr. Magwitch still here?”

  “Magwitch!” The innkeeper gave a hearty guffaw. “Mr. Dickens. He was here as well as Shakespeare, before he wrote us into Little Dorrit. Liked our coffee very much. I get a right lot of names out of Dickens among my guests. There is a fair share of individuals who prefer to register for a room under a nom de guerre, most often to hide a romantic indiscretion, which is not to say, madam, that we encourage that sort of behavior at the George. We quite frown upon it. Still, one doesn’t always know what is happening beneath one’s roof. Thinking on it, I don’t believe that we have had a Magwitch before.”

  “It doesn’t lend itself particularly well to romance,” I said.

  “Too right,” Mr. Blakely replied. “If you come with me, I will look up the gentleman’s details.” We followed him through a labyrinth of low-ceilinged rooms—Colin had to duck his head more than once to avoid the beams—to the side of the building opposite the area that functioned as tavern and restaurant. Here we came to a tall counter, behind which stood a row of wooden filing cabinets. He consulted a large register on the counter and then pulled open a drawer, riffled through it, and pushed it shut.

  “Mr. Magwitch is still here, sir. Hasn’t yet checked out.”

  “Could you take us to him?” Colin asked.

  “It would be a pleasure.”

  I need hardly tell the educated reader that Mr. Magwitch was, in fact, not in his room, that he had failed to appear for breakfast that morning, or that he had left the entire balance due the owner of the George unpaid. I had predicted these eventualities almost from the moment the innkeeper had located his erstwhile guest’s name in the register. Fortunately for us, the ire of the innkeeper made it unnecessary to encourage him to allow us to search Mr. Magwitch’s room; he offered to unlock the door before we had even asked.

  “Can’t trust these theater people, can you?” he said, leading us into the room.

  “Is that how he presented himself?” Colin asked.

  “He listed in my register his occupation as theatrical producer,” Mr. Blakely said. “I was not at the desk when he arrived.”

  “Would it be possible to speak with whoever was?” I asked.

  “That would be my daughter,” he said. “I will run and fetch her now. Look around as long as you like.”

  The state of Magwitch’s room suggested that his departure had not been planned. Two shirts of middling quality still hung in the wardrobe, as did a nightshirt. A razor, shaving brush, and mug sat in front of the mirror next to a pitcher and basin, and a clutter of books and papers were heaped on the table next to the bed.

  “A two-day-old edition of the Daily Yell,” I said, holding the tabloid up for my husband to see. “A Roman Catholic catechism, a copy of David Copperfield, and a used ticket from the boat train, Paris to London.”

  Colin took the ticket from my hand. “He arrived three days before the ball at Devonshire House.”

  “He had to have hired Mary before then,” I said, “or the costume couldn’t have been shipped to her from Worth.”

  “Yes.” Colin handed the ticket back to me and lifted the mattress from the bed. “Nothing here.”

  “Wait.” I reached into the last drawer he had opened.

  “Really, Emily, I must draw the line at you inspecting the undergarments of male persons wholly unknown to you.”

  This did not merit the dignity of a reply. I returned the offending garments, closed the drawer, and returned to the wardrobe. “All of his clothing was made in France. His books and his newspaper are English. I draw no conclusions from the paper. A French tourist might easily peruse the local news, but would be unlikely to choose something in a foreign language for his leisure reading. Furthermore, although Mr. Dickens’s fame is widely considered to be international, I find it hard to believe that a Frenchman would be leaving clues to his character based on things found in English novels. We did not think to ask the box office clerk if the man to whom he spoke was a foreigner, but I believe we can comfortably draw the conclusion that he is not.”

  “I agree he is most likely English,” Colin said.

  “So why was he in France before he came here?”

  “To order clothing from the House of Worth to forward his scheme?”

  “Perhaps, but he need not have stayed there until so close to the day of the ball if that were his only purpose abroad,” I said. “Furthermore, how many Englishmen would think to consult Worth in such circumstances? Would it not be easier to hire a London-based designer?”

  “Magwitch is not traveling in a manner that suggests he can afford Worth.” Colin picked up the train ticket from the table. “Second class, and charming though the George is, a gentleman of means would more likely stay at Brown’s Hotel.”

  “Estella Lamar can afford Worth.”

  “Estella Lamar is in Siam,” Colin said.

  “Is she?” I asked. “Are you quite sure?”

  “You raise an excellent point, my dear. We are in possession of no evidence that proves the fact. The letter her butler showed us purported to have been written by his mistress could have been a forgery. We are in no position to recognize Miss Lamar’s handwriting.”

  “Cécile is. We need to see if there is some connection between Estella and Mary Darby,” I said. “Perhaps there is a reason Estella would have wanted Mary dead. She might have had an illegitimate child, delivered by Mary—”

  “Estella Lamar is unmarried and of an age with our own dear Cécile. Do you really mean to suggest—”

  “No, no, you are correct. It’s unlikely, although the fact that she is unmarried has no bearing on the subject. If anything, it would point to her willingness to take the most extreme measures to hide all evidence of the child.”

  “We do, Emily, agree that t
here is not a child, correct?” Colin smiled. “I love when you warm to a subject—you are well aware of that—but this, my dear, is one of those flights of fancy far better suited—”

  “Yes, yes, to fiction, I know.” I pursed my lips. “Someday I shall write an extremely sensational novel and read all three volumes aloud just to torment you. In the meantime, though, I think we should turn our attention to Estella’s staff, and not only in London. There may be something afoot at her house in Paris.”

  “Bainbridge will never let me hear the end of it if you follow him to France, so I suppose there’s nothing to be done other than accompany you.” He sighed. “I don’t imagine you could convince Cécile to send him back to London?”

  “Tease however much you like,” I said, “but I know you and Jeremy are exceedingly fond of one another, even if you are both too proud to own up to it.”

  “I have certainly met worse individuals.”

  “Refrain from telling him that, please. If we are ever to see him married off, it will not be before he is convinced there is nowhere lower for him to sink.”

  * * *

  We spoke to Mr. Blakely’s daughter before we left the George, but she had very little to say about Mr. Magwitch. He had made almost no impression on the girl. This, coupled with the fact that a sort of brawl had broken out in the bar shortly after he had checked in, had left her with no details to share with us. We hailed a hansom cab outside the inn and paid another visit to Estella’s London house, where we questioned each and every member of the staff, none of them giving away the slightest hint that they might have passed news of the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball to Mr. Magwitch, let alone that they had been involved in the crime against Mary Darby. They were under instructions to forward all of their mistress’s mail to her solicitor in Paris.

  Back in Park Lane, Colin gave his valet instructions on what to pack for our trip to Paris while I went to the nursery to speak to Nanny and say good-bye to the boys. My heart twinged as I cuddled them each in turn and kissed their chubby cheeks.

  Nanny gave me a little pat on my shoulder. “There, there, Lady Emily, it’s always hard the first time you leave them, but you know they are in good hands. My Colin wouldn’t stand for anything less, and as I took care of him from the day he was born, they’re bound to turn out nearly as well as he.”

  “We could never do without you.” I passed Richard to her and squeezed her hand as she balanced him on her hip. Tom and Henry had been building a tower out of blocks, and were more than happy to be allowed back to their task. I started to miss them before I had reached the bottom of the nursery stairs.

  First thing the next morning, we were on our way to the station. Meg had packed my trunks with no direction from me. She knew better than I what to bring on any trip. Colin had left his valet at home, but I could not do without my maid. Cécile had a more than competent staff, but the truth was there was not a soul on earth capable of taming my hair half so well as Meg. I thought back to the days when she had balked at my love of travel, wishing we would stay always in England. Now she was more likely to badger me into going abroad. It pleased me no end that I had affected such a change in her.

  * * *

  I have always been a good traveler, ready to face whatever difficulties might be thrown at me, untroubled by the logistics of the journey itself, but the Channel on that day would have strained the nerves of Admiral Nelson himself; never had I seen the water so rough. By the time we had stepped off the boat, my complexion had taken on an unpleasant hue of green. I slept on the train, and felt partially revitalized by the time we pulled into the Gare du Nord. Cécile had sent a carriage for us, and as we turned onto rue Halévy and passed the magnificent Palais Garnier, home of the Paris Opéra, my spirits began to soar, reaching a crescendo as the Louvre appeared on our left just before we crossed the Seine. Colin leaned close to me.

  “We shall have to visit the Pont Neuf while we are here.”

  The Pont Neuf had become my favorite bridge in all of Paris after Colin had kissed me for the first time while we were standing on it, nearly seven years ago (now is not the time to discuss the fact that I slapped him after the kiss; I do believe my actions were justified in the moment). “Not until we have identified Mary Darby’s killer,” I said. “It is far too easy to be tempted to give oneself over entirely to romance when in Paris, and we cannot do so in good conscience before the ruthless brute has been captured.”

  “Has been captured?” Colin’s eyebrows shot up. “Did you choose so passive a phrase to deliberately suggest that you do not plan to reel him in yourself?”

  I patted his hand. “I thought you might consider it a bit of fun if I left it to you this time.”

  “Your generous nature never ceases to amaze me.”

  The carriage turned onto boulevard Saint-Germain, and I fell back against the cushions with a sigh as I looked out the window. Paris had an elegance that could not be found in any other city. Even the manner in which the sunlight glowed against the walls of buildings suggested a keen sense of fashion. Cécile’s house was only a little past Café de Flore, in the place Saint-Germain-des-Prés, just off the grand boulevard itself and across from the famous church. It was situated to give one a view of the city that was exactly what one imagines Paris ought to be. Tall buildings with graceful curves, refined details, and iron-railed balconies rose over the traffic-filled street. The bustle of carriages and pedestrians and the accompanying noise was not an irritant, instead it gave everyone in its wake a burst of energy. It was as if the world was converging on this lovely spot, eager to leave all ugliness behind.

  Cécile and Jeremy stood at the front door when we arrived, waiting to press glasses of cold champagne into our hands while Caesar and Brutus nipped at our heels. Colin did his best to ignore them—he considered dogs that small beneath his notice—but I bent over to stroke each of them as we entered Cécile’s favorite sitting room. Deep azure paint trimmed cream-colored double panels on the walls. Above each pair, a pale plaster frieze depicting the story of the birth of Athena danced in front of its blue background. Two enormous mirrors hung on walls opposite each other, one above a marble mantelpiece, and the other over Cécile’s desk. The desk, along with most of the rest of the furniture, was eighteenth century, delicate and gilded, the chairs upholstered in sky-blue silk a few shades lighter than the color on the walls. A large golden harp—which I had never known Cécile to play—stood in front of the fireplace. My favorite object in the room was a table, a rafraîchissoir. The top was quite deep—deep enough to have sunk into it two ice buckets for chilling wine, in front of which there was a smooth marble slab, white-veined gray, where one could put glasses waiting to be filled. The rest of the table was fashioned from rich acajou wood, polished until it shone. As always, both of the rafraîchissoir’s buckets were full, a bottle of champagne in each.

  On each of the room’s wall panels Cécile had caused to be hung an Impressionist painting. She counted the artists Renoir, Monet, and Sisley among her dearest friends, and supported them by buying as many of their paintings as they would allow her. Even in their lean days, they did not like to accept charity from her, so she insisted on paying exorbitant prices for their work. She refused to own things that were cheap, she had explained to them, and never doubted that her excellent taste should act as a catalyst for others. As a result, she viewed driving up the prices of Impressionist works to be nothing short of a moral imperative and would not allow the artists to take from her less than what she considered to be a fair price.

  “You did not have this one when I was here last.” I was standing in front of a Monet. “The way he has captured the sunlight is painfully beautiful.”

  “It is of Giverny. Do you recognize it, Kallista? It is the path that wanders around the lily pond near the willows.”

  “I do, very well.” I had been to Monet’s house there only once, four years ago, when I had taken a friend—and, it must be admitted, a thief—there so that the artist migh
t confront him about a stolen painting. This was far from an unpleasant task, as the thief in question possessed more charm and wit than most gentlemen, and his criminal activities were often limited to ones he viewed as correcting injustices. On that occasion, he claimed to have stolen the painting in question so that he might bestow it upon a more appreciative person. His motives, though suspect, had the shreds of a sense of moral order.

  Jeremy had abandoned his usual habit of sinking into the most comfortable chair as soon as he entered a room and was pacing. “Have you come because you do not trust me to handle Cécile’s needs? I must say I am quite put out, Hargreaves.”

  “Believe me, old chap, there is nothing I would prefer than to leave Estella Lamar to you,” Colin said. “It appears, however, that there may be some sort of connection between her and Mary Darby.”

  “So when I identify the murderer before you, will I become indispensible to the queen?” Jeremy asked.

  “You might,” Colin said, “so consider carefully your actions. If your desire is to be sent all over the Continent and the empire in pursuit of serious work, by all means beat me at my own game. I could use a bit of a holiday. It’s been far too long since Emily and I have been to Greece.”

  “Why do I feel as if I am being played for a fool?” Jeremy asked.

  “I know you have not been here much longer than us, but have you called at Estella’s house?” I asked.

  “Non,” Cécile said. “Your telegram was delivered before we had finished overseeing the unpacking of our trunks, so I decided it would be best to wait for you. I did not think so slight a delay would make much of a difference.”

  “A sound decision,” Colin said.

  “It is my dearest wish to please you, Monsieur Hargreaves. Your smile is all the reward a lady could ever want.”