London

by Carina Axelsson

  I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the door led into a room that, like the rest of the house, had stood still since Clarissa’s tragic death. Touches of pink satin could be seen from under the corners of the white dust sheets. The furniture was painted white, the carpeting now a dull cream. The room was feminine but not a child’s room. It also didn’t strike me as a room Clarissa would have decorated for herself—although the only reason I thought this was because I had yet to see a portrait of her dressed in pink.

  Speaking of which, there were a couple of framed photos in this room. It took me a while to see who they were of though, because the subject had changed so much. It was Caro—but as Carolyne Ryder she looked less like the cutting-edge stylist I knew and more like a Clarissa wannabe. She must have been in her late teens in the photos. Surely this was Caro’s bedroom then. Was this the room she’d rushed from just before the accident?

  Sebastian and I walked farther down the corridor. The second door led to a bathroom, the third to another, smaller bedroom. The last door, however, opened onto what must have been Clarissa’s bedroom. It was large with an adjoining dressing room and bathroom. The light blue silk of the furnishings and bed hangings shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight that seeped in through and around the white blinds of the windows. A four-poster bed dominated the center of the room, and a generously sized dressing table stood, draped in lace, in front of the window.

  A pretty portrait of Clarissa hung to the left of her bed, and under her image on a dainty night table sat an empty water carafe, a bejeweled alarm clock, and a very old telephone. Even covered up and in dim lighting, the room was elegant and impressive, yet comfortable. I didn’t think many people in London had bedrooms like this one—at least not anymore. The scale of the suite was more in keeping with a country home.

  “This must have been where she was resting before she fell,” I said, pointing to the bed as Sebastian walked in and stood next to me. “Mr. Rivera said Clarissa’s usual routine was to stay in her bedroom in the afternoon, from after lunch until three.”

  “I wonder what made her leave the room early,” he said.

  “Good point, Watson.”

  “I was thinking maybe one of the children had called her, but they were on this floor and the floor above, so she wouldn’t have gone down the stairs to see them.”

  “Jane was upstairs as well, and Caro had left before it happened…so why did Clarissa go downstairs? Was she about to go out? Actually, that makes me wonder—we don’t know anything about how she was dressed. Was she dressed to go out? Was she in a dressing gown if she’d been in her bedroom? That’s something else I might ask Mr. Rivera…”

  “Maybe she simply needed something from downstairs. Her diary or something.”

  I nodded. “Could be…” I stopped in front of a small, delicate writing desk that sat in front of the window of her dressing room and opened its various drawers.

  “What are you looking for?” Sebastian asked.

  “Nothing special—the drawers seem to be empty anyway. It’s just that some of the dust has been disturbed around a few of the drawers.”

  “Maybe there really is a ghost in the house.”

  “Maybe…”

  After we’d looked at her bedroom a few moments longer, Sebastian led me along the corridor, back toward the landing, and opened the door opposite Caro’s bedroom.

  “This must have been Georgie’s bedroom, don’t you think?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” I said as I quickly took in the small bed and ballerina wallpaper. I put my fingers to my lips and signaled to Sebastian to be quiet. I was thinking of the note I’d received that morning. At the time everyone asked me about what I could see, but not about what I could hear.

  Perhaps because of the cavernous dimensions of the hall and stairwell, and the hard surface of the stairs, the acoustics of the house meant that we could hear Agnieszka moving about below. We lost her if she closed a door behind her, but otherwise, sounds carried upstairs easily. Closer to us, Halley’s claws clattered clearly as she ran up and down the stairs. I looked under the bedroom door. (I’d closed it from the inside.) There was a good half-inch of space between the bottom of the door and the carpet. Noise easily floated in through the gap too, I noted. Georgie could have heard all sorts of things from her bed.

  We left her bedroom and I said, “Let’s go up to the nursery.”

  The house is starting to feel claustrophobic, I thought, as we climbed up to the third floor. The sense of gloom and neglect was depressing, and I was starting to feel a need to escape. I wondered about Georgie and the occasional visits she made to the place and why she and Johnny hadn’t sold it yet. They’d certainly get a fortune for it. Some mega-millionaire oligarch or banker would have a field day turning this place into a trophy house.

  Like the library, the playroom was in a real time warp. It reminded me of Downton Abbey. An old rocking horse stood under a dormer window, and a small table and set of chairs were placed in the center of the large, low-ceilinged room. Bookshelves lined the far wall, and a large trunk was pushed into a corner.

  What was interesting was that, as on the second floor, the hall and staircase acted as a sort of channel. All manner of noise from below was bounced upward on the hard surface of the stairs. Alternatively, I imagined that any noise from above would also be carried down the stairs. No matter where anyone stood in this house, the closer you were to the stairwell or landings, the more you would be able to hear—from above or below.

  Sebastian and I walked to the top of the stairwell and looked down the two flights of stairs. The first sentence from the note I’d received kept playing on rewind through my mind. Quietly, I said it out loud…

  At the time everyone asked me about what I could see, but not about what I could hear.

  “So what had Johnny or Georgie or Jane heard?” I asked Sebastian as we leaned over the balustrade, our whispers echoing gently within the stairwell. “And was it definitely something to do with Clarissa’s death? The words, ‘at the time’ seem to suggest it was, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Sebastian answered, “and then there’s the photo of the hall as well…”

  “That’s what my gut tells me too, Watson.” Slowly we began to descend the stairs. We stopped on the second-floor landing and walked along the corridor again, making sure we’d left the bedroom doors shut—as we’d found them.

  “And what about Caro?” I continued. “Had she heard something that made her leave the house in haste? I find it odd that she was absent at precisely the time her sister fell to her death. Or am I reading more into these details than I should? After all, it didn’t take the police long to decide that it was accidental.”

  “That’s because everything points to an accidental death,” Sebastian countered. “It’s only you who doesn’t think so,” he added with a smile. “But then you think everything is suspicious.”

  “Thanks, Watson. So what do you think then?”

  “Well, actually I think you might be on to something,” Sebastian said with a laugh.

  “Ha, Watson! Good answer.”

  “By the way, what about Mrs. Underwood, the housekeeper?” I asked after a moment.

  “Holmes, she’s dead! If you think she sent you the photo this morning, then your levels of suspicion are way too high—even by your standards!”

  “Very funny, Watson. And thanks. I know she’s dead, but Mr. Rivera’s words keep running through my mind—the bit about how the housekeeper said she wasn’t surprised that Clarissa had died. What did she know, I wonder?”

  I stopped directly beneath Clarissa’s portrait and we both looked up at it. She smiled down serenely, her beauty and style still very much alive in the painting. “Or,” I asked as I looked up at her, “had the beautiful model and muse herself said something that had predicted her own death?” I took a deep breath and turned to Seba
stian. “This case keeps going around in circles in my head… It’s so frustrating!”

  “You know what I think?” Sebastian asked as we walked down the last few stairs.

  “No, Watson, enlighten me.”

  “There’s only one course of action to take at a time like this.”

  “Okay, and what is that?”

  “I think we need a cheeseburger and a good side of hot fries.”

  I laughed. “Sometimes, Watson, your state-of-the-art sleuthing techniques amaze me.”

  “I’m glad something does, Holmes.”

  Before leaving Dawson Place I had to ask Agnieszka one last question:

  “How many phones does the house have?”

  “Two,” she answered. “One in the corridor between the hall and the kitchen and one upstairs in Clarissa’s bedroom.”

  Hmm…I stored that useful bit of information away, thanked her for her help, and we exchanged numbers. She agreed that I could call her if there was anything else I wanted to check out.

  I attached Halley’s leash and we headed home. Halley had been on the go with me all day (her second day as an undercover model dog!), and I knew she was hungry. So we stopped by my house long enough to leave her there and feed her. While Halley ate, I quickly ran up to my bedroom and took my laptop from my desk and something else I thought might be useful. I put them both in my shoulder bag, and then leaving Halley behind, Sebastian and I walked around the corner to the Lucky Seven Diner.

  The diner was busy—it was a Thursday evening, after all, and London is an especially buzzing place on that night of the week. After a short wait, a small booth was ours. We slid in and wasted no time in ordering—and continuing with our work.

  I took out the list I’d made during the La Lune show, as well as my laptop and the other item I’d taken from my desk.

  “What’s that?” Sebastian asked.

  I laughed as I passed it to him. “You’re not the only one with state-of-the-art sleuthing techniques, you know.”

  “Yeah, but a magnifying glass? I mean, that’s like straight out of a Hercule Poirot mystery,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes. “When I spoke to Tallulah earlier, she said there might be a clue in the file name Gavin used for the photographs on the stick. She thought ‘Close-up’ could be taken literally. And while we can, of course, zoom in and out of the images with my laptop, it might be easier with the magnifying glass.”

  “You have a point. But looking through every image in microscopic detail could take days!”

  I smiled. “Think of it as a game, Watson. I bet it won’t take us as long as you think, and besides, I have to do it. Time is ticking.” And as long as the case remained unsolved, Gavin remained at risk of another attack.

  “Right, Holmes,” Sebastian said. “Then I’ll hang on to your state-of-the-art detective aid, and if you open Gavin’s file on your laptop, I’ll take a closer look at the photos while you get cracking with your notes.”

  “Now you’re talking, Watson.”

  A while later, Sebastian took a long sip of his milk shake. “So far, I can’t find a thing.” He sighed.

  “How far have you gotten?”

  “About halfway through.”

  “How about we switch for a while?” I suggested. “I’ll look at the images, and you can take another look at Gavin’s photo and mine from this morning. Maybe something will jump out at you.”

  I handed Sebastian the two photos, and he pushed my laptop and magnifying glass across the table.

  After some time, Sebastian said, “If there is a clue in these photos, it’s buried deeper than Atlantis.”

  I stretched my back—I’d been slumped over my laptop, magnifying glass in hand, for way too long—and finished my milk shake before answering Sebastian. “Well, keep the faith, Watson. There has to be one in there somewhere. I mean, Gavin’s attack didn’t just happen for no reason.”

  “You’re right. But apart from Tallulah’s belief that there is a connection between the images on this stick and his attack, we don’t really have anything concrete to go on, do we?”

  “We have my gut instinct.”

  Sebastian rolled his eyes.

  “What? That counts for something! And by the way, if there’s no connection, then why was I sent a photo?”

  “You have a point.” He ran his fingers through his hair and then leaned back in the banquette, his head cradled in his hands. He looked gorgeous, I thought, and for a moment the case melted away. I loved his broad shoulders and the way his smile teased me when he gave me that certain look. He was good at watching and observing, and he didn’t feel the need to fill silence with words. I liked that about him. I pulled my eyes away from him and forced myself back to the task at hand.

  “So, nothing?” I asked as I pointed at the two photos Sebastian still held.

  “No. Not unless you want to hear that they remind me of my father.” He laughed. Sebastian’s father was the Chief Inspector of Paris Police and wore a trench coat and scarf with more flair than anyone in the Burberry ads ever did. What he and these photos could possibly have in common intrigued me.

  “Tell me, then.”

  “My father always writes and doodles on the left-hand side of papers first. Just like someone has on these.”

  I’d definitely noticed that the word Hall was written in the upper left-hand corner of the photo I’d been sent. And I’d also noted that the photo that Gavin had been sent had a notation or doodle—it was illegible—in the left-hand border of the photo that he had been sent. But I hadn’t given these observations more thought than that.

  “So why does he do that?” I took a pen and my notebook from my shoulder bag and noted how, instinctively, I would aim for the upper right-hand corner of a photo. Okay, but so what? And yet something clicked in my mind as I practiced this simple exercise. Something so obvious that I kicked myself for not having realized it sooner!

  It dawned on me just as Sebastian said: “Because he is left-handed.”

  Suddenly I was buzzing. Sebastian’s face faded from sight and the noises around me became an indistinguishable hum. Something was finally coming together. I thought back to every meeting I’d had with Johnny, Jane, Georgie, and Caro. I’d seen it, but I certainly hadn’t given it any thought. Again I kicked myself for my lax observation. But I was going to make up for lost time. Starting now.

  “Axelle? Have I missed something?” Sebastian was waving his hand in front of my face.

  “Sorry.” I smiled. “But, Watson, I owe you one.”

  “Thanks. I’m thrilled to know you owe me one—and don’t worry, I’ll collect—but are you saying you think the person who sent these photos is left-handed?”

  I nodded.

  “And do you know for a fact that one of our suspects is?”

  “I do.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me which one, are you?”

  I smiled and shook my head.

  “In that case, Holmes, I think you owe me two.”

  Sebastian walked me home, just like he had on Tuesday night. It was only Thursday but the last couple of days had gone by in such a blur of following clues, chasing leads, and modeling work that Tuesday could have been two weeks ago.

  We stood outside in the warm air for a few minutes, holding hands. Gradually he drew me to him, until I was close enough to feel his breath on my skin. As our eyes locked, he gently ran his finger over my lips and leaned in to slowly kiss me good night. He was in London until Sunday, but already I was missing him, dreading his absence.

  Finally we parted, but I felt him watching me as I walked up our front path and into my house. I turned and waved before I stepped inside. Sebastian smiled and waved back before he disappeared into the night.

  Halley was waiting for me when I walked in. My mom still wasn’t home, so after sending her a qui
ck message to say that I was back and was going to bed, I let Halley out for a last tour of the garden before we both climbed upstairs. Just as I reached my bedroom, a text message came through. It was from Agnieszka.

  What does she want? I thought, as I unlocked my phone and started to read her message.

  Mr. Rivera says he’s found someone who can tell you about Mrs. Underwood. He asks if you can meet him at the library at 9 a.m.

  I texted back:

  That’s great! I’ll be there, thanks, Agnieszka. And please thank Mr. R for me!

  After washing off my makeup and brushing my still-straight hair, I padded back to my bedroom. My mind was still whirring with what seemed like a gazillion thoughts about the case. I was hoping they would all suddenly fall into place. Before I slipped into bed I sat at my desk and picked up the paper copy of the old photo Gavin had been sent. I turned on my bright desk lamp and aimed it at the photo. Then, with the magnifying glass, I took a very slow and very careful look at it.

  Both Sebastian and I had studied it while we were at the diner, but the light hadn’t been as good there. I went carefully over it again, from left to right and top to bottom. After a minute something did in fact catch my eye. I turned my laptop back on and opened Gavin’s file. I found the photo in the file and looked closely at it under the light and with the magnifying glass. Hmm…the tiny fleck seemed to be there too, but on-screen it wasn’t as sharply defined.

  The tiny spot I was looking at seemed to be part of the original—and not just a surface scratch on the photo itself.

  I knew my father had a better magnifying glass in his study, so I quickly ran down to fetch it. Back in my bedroom I looked again at the spot in question until a chill ran through me and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I bent over the photo for a long time, paralyzed by what I saw. Mudlarking, indeed. This minuscule spot looked like nothing, and yet it was everything. If my suspicions were correct, then I finally knew why Gavin had nearly been killed.

  So had he discovered this long covered-up detail as I had, just by studying the photo? Had there been a note attached to the original hand-delivered photo? Assuming there was, that note must have helped Gavin uncover this clue much faster than I had. But how had he proved he was right about it? Because I’d have to find a way of proving it too. Furthermore, had Gavin had any idea what he was getting into by following up on the photo?