City of Light (City of Mystery)

by Kim Wright

  “Why are you being so vague, Trevor? I didn’t know you and Rayley exchanged private letters at all. What has he told you that the rest of us aren’t privy to know?” When Trevor hesitated, Emma leaned forward. “Is he having a love affair with this Delacroix woman?”

  Trevor shook his head. “Perhaps in his dreams, but that’s all. He’s enchanted with her and is curious about her background. The man she is living with in Paris is named Armand Delacroix and Rayley writes that he makes his money by procuring private investments for the Exhibition.”

  Emma’s pale eyebrows shot up. “Well that’s quite the coincidence.”

  “Quite. And here’s another one for you to stir into your tea. Isabel was born and raised in Manchester.”

  Emma’s turned toward the window and the muddy street outside it. “She lived here?”

  Trevor nodded and they both took a sip of tea.

  “What are the statistical odds,” Emma finally asked, “that the Cleveland Street case would somehow be connected to Isabel Blout, and the Parisian Exhibition, and the death of Patrick Graham?”

  “Damn small, which is why I’m not at all sure the two cases are connected.”

  Emma’s eyes jerked to his face. “You truly doubt it? I’ll concede that on the surface it seems unlikely that a murder in Paris and a brothel in London are somehow linked, but given the facts before us, it appears they must be. Consider the pieces of the puzzle and then tell me you don’t believe they all belong in the same box. We have a British man, Charles Hammond, who goes back and forth from England to France on business which his wife claims is connected to under-the-table fundraising for the Exhibition. We have a Frenchman across the channel, who Rayley claims is doing the same thing. The Englishman is from Manchester and the Frenchman is living with a woman from Manchester. It seems there would have to be some link and the link would have to be the woman.”

  Trevor gave a slow nod, although he was clearly not as convinced as Emma hoped he would be. “I shall wire Rayley.”

  “Well obviously you must wire Rayley, but in the meantime, we’re already here. We should try to find someone who knew Isabel when she was growing up. What was her maiden name?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Would Gerry know?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Emma pushed her cup away. “How old is Isabel?”

  Trevor thought for a moment. “Married very young, but been married more than ten years, closer to fifteen….so I’d say about thirty.”

  “And how old is Hammond?”

  “Gad, I don’t know. All the boys at Cleveland Street said was that he was an adult, which could mean anything. Assuming that the photograph in his wife’s house was recent…”

  “He’d be about thirty as well.”

  “I suppose. But Emma, we’re making any number of assumptions.”

  “I realize that, Trevor, but it seems to me odd to think that two people from the same small dreary industrial town, about the same age, should have somehow clawed their way out of that town and into the expatriate social circles of Paris and yet would not know each other. Think of it. Charles and Isabel could be childhood sweethearts. Brother and sister. Yes, looking at it from the outside, it’s improbable that your case and Rayley’s should be connected, but given the facts before us it seems more improbable that they’re not. The eyes of the world are looking toward Paris. So is it really so surprising that the focus of the all the criminals of Europe might fix there as well?”

  Emma sat back in her chair, proud of her speech, especially the last line, but Trevor was still not entirely persuaded. “Manchester isn’t such a small town. Yes, far smaller than London, but it’s not at all like the village where I grew up or the one you came from either. In the rural burgs you’re quite right, everyone knows everyone. The children all go to the same school, the citizens all gather at the same church….”

  “And in Manchester they all gather at the same factories and mills,” Emma said. “The cotton mill is their church, it is their school. Look around you. Close your eyes and sniff the air, if you can manage do so without bringing on a fit of coughing. Any young person with any wit or ambition at all would try to get out of this hellish place the first chance they got. Reinvent themselves in London. But then perhaps London proves too close for a true reinvention, with the blasted trains running back and forth every hour on the hour. Someone remembers them. Someone gossips. Their past manages to follow them into their new life. So they seek to go even farther from the city of their birth, to a new country. They cross the channel, hoping that the water will wash away all sins and all memories and they shall emerge on the soil of France reborn.”

  “I say, you’re quite poetic this afternoon.”

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  She turned her small, pointed chin toward him, her pale skin flushed. “You’re contented with your life, Trevor, and by the look of you I’d venture that you always have been. You could never understand how strong the desire might be to reinvent oneself. What it might drive someone to. A man like you wouldn’t know how to imagine it.”

  Trevor certainly could imagine it. Even the small rural towns, nestled in the velvet green hills of the lake districts, could give rise to their share of humiliations and disappointments. But he held his tongue, mindful that Emma’s own journey had been far more painful than his, and that her sister Mary’s attempts to outrun their past had led to her death. They never spoke of Mary, he thought, but in another way it seemed that all he and Emma ever did was speak of Mary, as if every conversation between them was really about her, no matter how the words might change. Trevor’s failure to catch the Ripper. His failure to save Emma’s sister – and thus in a way, his failure to save Emma’s heart. It sat between them every time they met, as sure as a cream pitcher and cups on a table.

  “Everyone says that Isabel is striking, with Rayley venturing farther to suggest her beauty is nearly ethereal,” Emma continued, remounting her attack. “You saw the picture of Charles on the mantle. He hardly seemed to fit Manchester either, did he? I think it’s entirely possible that these two beautiful misfits managed to find each other here in this dreadful little place. The mere presence of the other gives each of them courage. They vow to do anything to escape, and who can blame them? Even if it meant marriage to a man Isabel didn’t love and that Charles would embark upon the most despicable sorts of business. No, I believe that Isabel and Charles knew each other and still do.” Emma looked around the shabby little tea room with more conviction. “We should stay.”

  “Stay?”

  “You must contact Rayley, yes. But wire Gerry first. Tell her to find out Isabel’s maiden name, if she doesn’t already know it. And first thing tomorrow you and I shall go to the mill where Charles Hammond got his start. Something tells me we’ll find that Isabel once worked there too, or at least some member of her family.”

  “You’re suggesting that we stay in Manchester tonight? You and I?” Trevor’s eyes darted around the tea room with anxiety. “We shall miss our train.”

  “There will be another tomorrow. Several more.”

  “But we haven’t any –“

  Emma looked at him with a mixture of irritation and amusement in her face. “We’ll stay in an inn, Trevor. In separate rooms. Travelers do such things, do they not? Good heavens, you’re actually blushing.”

  “We haven’t brought anything with us.”

  “I’m sure we can manage the night.”

  “No, I just mean that the files and reports are all –“

  “The essentials are in your little notebook in your pocket. They always are.”

  “It’s Tuesday, you know. Geraldine is expecting us for dinner.”

  “Oh, of course,” Emma said dryly. “And there’s no way that can be postponed.”

  “I don’t think we should –“

  “Oh, why don’t you just say what you’re really thinking?” Emma said, no longer bothering to hid
e her frustration. “If you were traveling with Davy or Tom and a promising lead opened up, you’d follow through without a moment’s thought. You’re not returning to London to get your notes. You’re returning to London to get your true assistants, the two men on the team. Even though you’ve said yourself, a dozen times, that women are more apt to confide in other women and there’s a good chance many of our interviewees will be female.”

  “It isn’t that,” Trevor said. “Truly it isn’t.” It struck him that he was sitting here taking tea with Emma in much the same manner as he had shared tea with Geraldine the day before. But while he had felt completely relaxed with Gerry, being alone with Emma was a different manner. As much as he liked her, as much as he had fantasized and planned for such moments, the reality was not keeping pace with the fantasy. He sat unnaturally in his chair, his stomach pulled in and his smile forced. They were in uncharted territory here. They had sailed off the edge of his personal map.

  For Emma was quite right. It could be done. There were probably any number of boarding houses on this street alone, due to its proximity to the railway station. They could secure two rooms, wire Gerry, wire Rayley, and then tonight they could dine together in the finest restaurant Manchester could boast. Heaven only knows what the finest restaurant in Manchester might actually look like, but, no matter, it would be intoxicating to be alone with her for such an extended span of time, far away from the prying eyes of London and the knowing nudges of their well-meaning friends. This was his chance, so why the deuce wasn’t he taking it?

  “All right,” Emma said with a sigh. “I wave the white flag. We shall board our train and return to London. I suppose it’s an easy enough thing to journey back and you can bring Davy as your second next time, or Tom, or someone else you deem to be a true colleague.”

  “It isn’t that,” he said again, trying to keep his voice authoritative even as his heart was sinking in his chest. “You did very well with Janet Hammond and I have no doubt you will do equally well in interviews with future witnesses, be they male or female. But I don’t go into investigations on an impulse, and as long as you are a member of this particular team, neither shall you.” Her expression shifted slightly and he seized the brief advantage. “Shall we affect a compromise? Tonight we return to London and attend our normal Tuesday night meeting. Tom and Davy will want to hear the details of your Hammond interview and I’ve worked up a rather delightful demonstration on strangulation which I’m sure you’ll all enjoy. Tomorrow I shall devote my morning to learning more about Isabel Blout’s years in London. Her portrait by Whistler seems a logical place to start. And yes, if we can unearth even a glimmer of evidence connecting Isabel Blout to Charles Hammond we shall be back in Manchester by afternoon. Is that fair?”

  “I suppose.” Emma tossed her napkin to the table. “And shall I now say ‘Thank you, Sir’ and curtsy in gratitude?

  He had offended her again. Undoubtedly, her overarching complaint was that he did not treat her as an equal. She believed that if it had been Davy or Tom who had put forth such a theory, he would have more readily accepted it. At least been willing to spend the night, to make a circuit of the factories in the morning. And she was right. These modern women, Trevor thought uneasily, gazing at the thin closed line of Emma’s mouth. Who can understand them or hope to know what they truly want? Emma claimed she desired nothing more than to be considered like any other member of the team, yet Trevor somehow suspected that if he managed to overcome his emotions sufficiently to treat her like Davy and Tom, then that would be quite wrong too. That his attempts at egalitarianism and democracy would only offend her on some other level, would but start a new and equally unwinnable battle on a fresh field.

  It is impossible, he thought. She is my employee and my friend and my intellectual equal and the object of my desire and I know I must simultaneously protect her and respect her and it is all quite impossible. I shall be blamed for some sin or another whichever way I go.

  He looked at his pocketwatch.

  “Thirty minutes until the last train,” he said. “Would you like a bit more tea?”

  “Why not?” Emma said, staring down at her cup. “It would seem that we have nothing else to do.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Paris

  April 24

  4:20 AM

  Help me, the note said. I must go home.

  Rayley held it in his trembling hand.

  Even before he had received the last telegram from London - the one which contained a terse sermon from Trevor on the dangers associated with beautiful women - Rayley had already told himself he would not become further involved in the serpentine destiny of Isabel Blout. She was, after all, the mistress of a powerful man and the wife of a rich one. However sullied her reputation might be, these stations would fuse together to collectively protect her. She need hardly throw herself on the mercy of a Scotland Yard detective, a man who lived in a rented room, a man with no friends, little money, or even the verbal acuity to order a boiled egg.

  She didn’t need his help. To pretend that she did was sheer manipulation on her part. To respond to this dramatic note – had she actually sprinkled water on the notepaper to simulate tears? - would be sheer folly on his.

  Meet me at sunrise, the letter said. At the base of the tower.

  Sunrise. A poetic and imprecise term, so typical of Isabel.

  No, she didn’t really need his help but undoubtedly she was frightened, this much he would concede. And in light of recent events he could hardly blame her.

  Once again, Rayley had spent a night battling insomnia, although at least this time he knew the reason. It is always hard to sleep when one knows one must rise early. He took a restive powder, which did nothing, counted the traditional sheep, fretted, masturbated, mentally composed a stinging reply to Trevor’s pompous message, and finally rose from his bed and dressed. Walked swiftly through the cold and silent streets. It was dark, very dark, and a church bell struck four, telling him what he already knew.

  He had come far too early.

  4:15 AM

  London

  Three hundred and fifty kilometers away, Trevor rolled over in his own bed and reached for the water carafe on his nightstand. His throat was like sandpaper, his head already aching. They had all drank too much at Geraldine’s house, as was quite often the case.

  Emma had seen him to the door, as always.

  Davy had left with him. Tom, of course, had stayed behind.

  Trevor had spent the last five months distressed that he was never alone with Emma. Even when he came to Mayfair on Friday nights for his standing French lesson, Geraldine was there, and Gage. And, half the time, Tom. Troublesome Tom, who was younger, richer, cleverer, and infinitely more handsome.

  And now he had gotten his chance to be alone with her and had utterly muffed it.

  Tom would’ve had the good sense to stay with Emma in Manchester. Tom would’ve known how to turn it all into a grand adventure. He would have made those grimy mill town streets shine like the Champs-Elysees.

  This was the second time within a year that Trevor had developed a romantic attachment to a woman who clearly preferred another man. The irony of this fact was not lost on him and at times it caused Trevor to question, usually after hours spent in the velvety grip of Geraldine’s fine wines, if he was deliberately choosing women whom he knew in advance would either ignore or reject his advances. After all, he’d been a bachelor for some time. He’d grown comfortable with his arrangements and he knew they benefited his work. Perhaps it was easier to admire from a distance than to subject himself to the inevitable compromises and irritations which would accompany a real marriage to a real woman.

  There was no one to discuss the matter with, if indeed he were so inclined. Rayley was in Paris, battling lavender-scented demons of his own, and Trevor certainly couldn’t speak of this particular matter to Davy or even Geraldine. In setting himself up as the leader of the Tuesday Night Murder Games Club, he had also set himself
up for social solitude.

  Oh, they cared about him, certainly. All the people he had dined with tonight knew the pain he had inflicted upon himself when he’d fallen in love with Tom’s sister Leanna the autumn before. With tact so extreme that it bordered on absurdity, they even avoided saying her name, referring only obliquely to her upcoming wedding to John Harrowman, which would take place at the Bainbridge country estate in June. Tom sometimes made mention of “when I go home in the summer” and Geraldine, even more bizarrely, had removed Leanna’s portrait from the family collection in the hallway, replacing it with a bad watercolor of a horse.

  But Leanna was a pain that had faded and when Trevor thought of her now, his primary emotion was chagrin at his foolishness. How could he have ever thought he would draw a woman like Leanna Bainbridge from the side of a man like John Harrowman?