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

by Tasha Alexander

  “We have had no sign of Magwitch in Paris.” Colin, having finished his task, poured a whisky for himself and Jeremy. Cécile sipped champagne. Port was ordinarily my preferred libation, but today I chose tea, wanting my head as clear as possible. “It may be best to return to London. We are no closer to understanding why Mary Darby had disguised herself as Estella Lamar. Her role, such as it was, might have had nothing to do with her murder.”

  “You cannot believe she was a victim of random violence!” I exclaimed. “The circumstances scream otherwise. Magwitch mistook me for her at the ball, and he was angry that I did not meet what he described as his very specific requirements, which suggests he had not yet met Mary in person. He had hired her without having seen her, but must have done his best to select an individual he thought could reasonably pass for Estella. Mary had dark hair, was of unremarkable height, and so far as I can tell from pictures, possessed a figure more or less similar to Estella’s, so it is not difficult to see that he would have found me a disappointment in more ways than simply my age. From a distance, or in a photograph that obscured the details of her features, Mary could have convinced strangers that she was Estella, just as all the other Estellas have done in the past.”

  “Emily, this idea that there are dozens of ladies across the globe pretending—”

  “I realize how ridiculous it sounds, but consider the evidence. Estella Lamar could not have sent the telegrams to Worth, at least not all of them. Someone else is posing as her.”

  “Why?” Colin asked. “It may be that Estella is having a laugh. We all agree she takes eccentricity to new heights. It does not tell us that she was involved with Mary Darby’s murder.”

  “If I discovered a chap impersonating me in a manner of which I did not approve, I’d be sorely tempted to murder him,” Jeremy said. “Mary Darby caused a scene when she was exposed as a fraud, and that may have angered Estella.”

  “You cannot suspect Estella is our villain.” Cécile placed her champagne flute on a Sèvres-porcelain-topped table. “If anything, she is a victim of this man.”

  “We have no evidence that Estella is doing anything but happily traversing the world,” Colin said. “We can connect Magwitch to Mary, but we know neither why he hired her nor what, if any, Estella’s involvement in the scheme may be.”

  “I intend to find that out.” I refilled my teacup and added a splash of milk. An idea was tugging at me. “Cécile, do you remember Mr. Bennett who owns the Herald? We dined at his house one of the first times I was in Paris with you.”

  Years ago, when I was still a tiny baby, or perhaps even before my birth, Mr. Bennett had sent Henry Morton Stanley to Africa in an attempt to find the explorer Dr. David Livingstone, who had not been heard from in years. I had not given this incident much consideration when I met Mr. Bennett, but soon thereafter, while investigating the death of my first husband, Philip, Viscount Ashton, the story inspired me to hope—wrongly—that Philip, whom I believed to have died in Africa, was still alive. This had been my first foray into detection, and after uncovering the truth about Philip (and having taken the false step of briefly believing that Colin had murdered him—we all make mistakes), I found I had an affinity for the work, and had continued ever since.

  “Yes, a rather bellicose gentleman and very pleased with himself. I have avoided him whenever possible.”

  “He wasn’t so bad, at least not to us.” In general, I found myself drawn to eccentric personalities, but Mr. Bennett had a habit of courting scandal like no one else I had ever met. The sequence of events that had led to the breaking off of his engagement some two decades previous—rumored to have caused his abandonment of his native America for Europe—is of such a nature to render it impossible to describe in polite company. His legendary temper brought him notoriety, and his playboy lifestyle sealed his reputation. “His archives at the Herald are bound to be a treasure trove of information about Estella’s travels. I am convinced that if we are able to piece together what she is really doing, we will be able to determine why Magwitch hired Mary Darby to play her.”

  Colin did not attempt to dissuade me. It was too late in the day to embark on the scheme, so I set off the following morning, Jeremy in tow. My husband had an appointment set to consult with his French counterparts about how to best demand access to Monsieur Pinard’s records. Cécile, not interested in seeing Mr. Bennett, begged off joining me, but called for the carriage to take Jeremy and me to Neuilly-sur-Seine, a town more like an offshoot of Paris than an actual suburb, just to the north of the Bois de Boulogne.

  Mr. Bennett came out to us in reception the instant his clerk had alerted him of our arrival. “I remember you as Lady Ashton, the fetching young widow. What a crushing disappointment to bachelors everywhere that you have married again.” He bent over my hand and kissed it. “I presume this is your husband.”

  Jeremy grinned and shook the American’s hand. “Alas, I am not, although I did my bloody best to convince her to accept me. Jeremy Sheffield, Duke of Bainbridge.”

  “He did nothing of the sort. The duke is the worst sort of tease. I apologize for descending upon you without notice, Mr. Bennett, but it is a matter of some urgency. Are you at all acquainted with Mademoiselle Estella Lamar?”

  “I am more indebted to her than you can know. The photographs of her adventures never fail to sell papers, and she provides them as well, giving me a result with almost no effort. She is a publisher’s dream.”

  “You don’t send photographers to follow her travels?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no. Can you imagine what that would cost?”

  “Of course. I did not mean specially to follow her, but I know the Herald has correspondents across the globe, and I would imagine photographers as well.”

  “We do, but given that Miss Lamar is so very good about documenting her movements on her own, I have never felt the need to chase after her. She is not news, after all, just a bit of excitement to entice readers to buy the paper. People like the idea of a lady explorer. I’ve been trying to get Gertrude Bell to write for me ever since I read her Persian Papers.” Miss Bell and I were nearly of an age. I had never met her, but had envied from afar her studies at Oxford, where she had received a first in history, and I knew her to have recently set off on a trip around the world. “Miss Lamar is much easier to contend with. I can rely on the fact that every few months I will receive a photograph of her in a spectacular location.”

  “She sends them herself?” I asked.

  “No, one of her companions manages that and includes a brief note of explanation so that we can caption the picture properly and write a small piece of our own.”

  “Do you recall the companion’s name?”

  He did not. He seated us in his office, and after quick consultation with his clerk, returned with a file. “Here is your name: Miss Lizzie Hexam,” he said. I perked up, as would any well-read individual.

  “It is critical that I gather as much information as possible about Miss Lamar. She may be in danger following a murder that recently occurred in London.”

  “Mary Darby?” Mr. Bennett asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “The Times offered very poor coverage, but the description of the dead woman’s clothing shouted to me that she had been a guest at the Devonshire House ball.”

  “They did not say she was in costume,” I said.

  “No, but current fashion does not favor moon-shaped headdresses. I drew the obvious conclusion. I assume Devonshire wants the whole thing hushed up?”

  “He does not want to be attached to any scandal, but has done nothing to impede the investigation of the crime.”

  “Not everyone has your temperament, Bennett.” Jeremy, who had taken a seat in the corner of Mr. Bennett’s office rather than in front of the desk, stretched his legs in front of him. “It’s what makes society so very tedious. Devonshire should have put himself right in the middle of things, demanding justice and vowing to hunt the murderer to the edge
s of the earth.”

  “The earth is round, Jeremy,” I said.

  “Have they proved that?”

  I glared at him.

  “Mary Darby, so far as I can tell, had no business being at that ball,” Mr. Bennett said. “Tell me why she was there and I shall give you full access to all my archives. Better still, I shall have my clerk pull everything for you, thereby sparing you what I promise would be an extremely long and dusty task.”

  “I avoid dust at all costs. Tell him whatever you must, Emily.”

  “Mrs. Darby presented herself to the gathering as Estella Lamar. I would prefer that you keep that tidbit to yourself for the moment.” I hoped he did not miss the seriousness in my tone.

  Mr. Bennett looked thoughtful. “I can promise to remain silent for now, so long as you give me an exclusive when the business is finished. I’m tired of the Times always getting the inside line on your investigations.”

  “If you did not know I was married again, how do you know about my investigations?”

  He grinned. “Oh, I knew, Lady Emily, but I never like to show all my cards.” He sent us on our way with assurances that he would have everything to do with Estella Lamar sent to me at Cécile’s as quickly as possible, giving me the file he had consulted in search of Miss Hexam’s name. “To whet your appetite,” he said. I devoured the contents of it in the carriage, smug with satisfaction.

  “Colin cannot claim there is anything but the strongest connection between Estella and Magwitch now.” I poked Jeremy, who had fallen asleep across from me.

  “Right. Quite right. Just as you said.”

  “Have you even the slightest idea what I said?”

  “None. Not a bit, I’m afraid.”

  “This file alone proves that Magwitch is involved somehow with Estella, or at least very strongly suggests it. I knew it the moment Mr. Bennett gave us Lizzie Hexam’s name.”

  “I can’t say I’m acquainted with Miss Hexam.”

  “Miss Hexam doesn’t exit. She is a character in another of Mr. Dickens’s novels, Our Mutual Friend. I think he chose Dickens because of Great Expectations.”

  “I do not follow you, Em. Never could stand Dickens. Too many words.”

  “Jeremy, I am not entirely convinced you even know how to read.” He picked up his hat off the bench beside him and placed it on his head, tilting it forward to cover his eyes.

  “Why Great Expectations?”

  “Because Estella is the name of the most important female character. You really ought to read it. Pip only has a chance at winning her affections—that is, at least he believes he has a chance—because of the anonymous monetary assistance given to him by Abel Magwitch.”

  Jeremy lifted the hat, just for a moment, so that I could see his eyes. “Same as the Magwitch bloke from the photograph.”

  “Yes. Magwitch is his nom de guerre.”

  “Must be blasted aggravating having to keep track of more than one name. So who is Pip?”

  “He’s the protagonist. As a young boy he—”

  “No, no, not in the novel. I shall promise to read it if you can promise I shan’t be bored. Who is Pip in our story? We’ve got our Estella and our Magwitch. Who’s our Pip?”

  His question struck me like a blow. Why had it not occurred to me that someone—I was not sure yet whether villain or hero—had machinated this entire situation based on the work of Mr. Dickens? “Jeremy, you may have just had your very first flash of brilliance.”

  * * *

  I did not believe the key to our investigation was Great Expectations alone. Lizzie Hexam appeared in another novel altogether. What if the other players in our plot had chosen their noms de guerre to reflect qualities they shared with Mr. Dickens’s characters? Abel Magwitch was an escaped convict who is dedicated to bettering the life of young Pip. It took no imagination to see that our Mr. Magwitch was a criminal, but I could not determine what might be the streak of good in him. Who was his Pip? Lizzie Hexam, a nauseating paragon of good in Our Mutual Friend, made an obvious candidate for Estella’s companion.

  Most curious, though, was Estella herself. Mademoiselle Lamar had no nom de guerre. Were the others so named because of the roles they played around a lady who could be compared to the cold and unhappy girl in Great Expectations, trained by the calculating Miss Havisham to have no heart? Estella, who described herself as “bent and broken, but—I hope—into a better shape.”

  “I do not claim this theory ought to shape the remainder of our investigation,” I said, when Jeremy and I had joined up again with Colin and Cécile, “but it deserves the strongest consideration.”

  Colin nodded. “There may be something to it. Well done, Bainbridge. I admit I did not think you had it in you.”

  “Cool your excitement, Hargreaves. I did nothing more than make a casual query about Pip. Our darling Em is the one who deserves credit for the rest.”

  A messenger from Mr. Bennett arrived with a large case full of files long after we had finished dinner; the newspaperman had not exaggerated when he claimed to be saving us from time-consuming work. I set myself to the task of reading and cataloging them as I had already done with the ones drawn from Cécile’s album, and did not fall into bed until well after two o’clock in the morning. When I rose again, it was nearly noon, and I found myself the only member of our party at home. I pulled on a dressing gown and went into the library, going over the timeline I had constructed based on all our information before turning my attention to the photographs of Estella we had compiled. Twice servants came to offer me refreshments, but I refused, not wanting to be distracted until I had finished taking notes on everything I observed in the pictures. That done, I returned to my bedroom, rang for Meg, and allowed her to dress me.

  Neither my husband nor my friends had left word as to where they had gone, and I decided a change of scene would clear my mind and better allow me to consider the facts of the case. I left the house and made the (extremely) short walk to Café de Flore, taking a table in the glassed-in front section to the right of the door. I had found, over many previous visits, this spot, located just before the curve in the banquette that ran the length of the wall, to be the preeminent one in all of Paris to sit without purpose and be endlessly entertained by the parade of passersby on the pavement outside. Today, I may have had a purpose, but I saw no harm in allowing myself a bit of fun as well. I ordered a chocolat chaud and alternated between studying the pages of my notebook and evaluating the current Parisian fashions on display beyond the window.

  Not long after I had arrived, a gentleman sat at a table quite near mine, taking a seat that faced away from the window. This odd choice did not escape my notice. His hair, auburn but streaked with silver at the temples, was pomaded, as was his rather splendid handlebar mustache—I call it splendid as an example of its kind; as a rule I do not approve of mustaches—and his suit, though old-fashioned, had been cut from a wool of decent quality. A simple walking stick with a curved handle hung awkwardly over the back of his chair. His boots, which I could see better once he crossed his legs, were sturdy, their soles bearing evidence of having recently been in close proximity to a great deal of mud. Most important was that it quickly became evident that he was taking rather too much interest in my person.

  A waiter brought my chocolat, and I poured it from its silver-plated pot into a china cup, stirring with a little spoon while avoiding my neighbor’s stare. The irony was that he seemed to be making a very great effort at subtlety. He would look down at his table—whatever he had ordered had not yet appeared—as if studying the surface with the seriousness of the most dedicated man of science. Darwin and his finches would have flung themselves off the side of the Beagle had they known of the existence of such a man! After approximately thirty seconds of this, he would slowly raise his eyes until they met mine, at which point he would cough and abruptly turn away. Subterfuge could not be listed among his talents.

  When at last a pot of tea arrived for him, he applied himsel
f to it with keen attention. I abandoned my chocolat, left some coins on the table, and removed myself from the premises before he looked again in my direction. Ever so slightly unnerved, I made my way back toward Cécile’s, but before long felt the uncanny prickling on the base of my skull that, without fail, signals that I am being watched. Crossing the narrow street that ran along Les Deux Magots and the wider one that came next—the one in which Cécile’s house stood—I turned left toward the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. This was the oldest church in Paris, burial place of the Merovingian kings, and, most important to me now, conveniently situated almost directly across from my friend’s house. A crowd of tourists covered much of the pavement, so I had no trouble diving into their midst so that I might succeed both in hiding and turning around to confirm my suspicions of having been tailed. There, standing on the opposite corner, was the auburn-haired man. I could no longer in good conscience refer to him as a gentleman.

  His presence caused me a dilemma. I did not want to continue on to Cécile’s, as I had no desire to alert him to that location as one at which he should expect to find me, but neither did I want to wander the streets of Paris in an attempt to lose him. I considered entering the church, but rejected the idea, deciding it would be simple enough for him to follow me inside and perhaps corner me. There had been a time when I might have stomped over and confronted him, but the days of my impetuous youth were behind me. My husband would never forgive me if I put myself in danger, and in the midst of a murder investigation one could never take for granted one’s safety. The square tower of the church loomed over me. Looking up at it had been a mistake. My boot slipped on the cobblestones and I wrenched my ankle. The man had crossed the street and was now standing only thirty feet away from me. I ducked behind a portly German who was lecturing his equally portly offspring about the differences between Gothic and Romanesque architecture, putting them squarely between my adversary and myself. Then, as there were no better options readily at hand, I slipped into the church.