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

by Tasha Alexander

  * * *

  It was all very well for Colin to dismiss my questions about the source of the flowers. He may even have been correct in his—very firmly expressed—belief that it would be impossible for us to track their origin. His subsequent attentions to my person left me quite incapable of arguing with him, a fact I was quick to point out the following morning over breakfast.

  “Are you issuing a complaint?” His dark eyes danced over a cup of coffee.

  I raised an eyebrow. “I see that you have been forced to reject tea in favor of something stronger. Are you not well rested after last night?”

  “So no complaint?”

  I wished Cécile were awake so that I might more easily change the subject, but was saved from having to reply to this undignified question by Jeremy’s arrival. “Hargreaves! You look almost as bad as I. What a comforting sight.” He heaped eggs onto a plate and topped them with three croissants. “I hardly slept what with all the noise.”

  “Noise?” I asked, blushing.

  “I thought it must be feral cats at first, but then I realized I have not the slightest idea what feral cats sound like. Then I thought Cécile had an admirer trying to attract her attention from beneath her window.” He took a large bite of eggs and chewed thoroughly, swallowing before he continued. “When I remembered that, unlike mine, her bedroom faces the back of the house, that explanation failed me as well. In the end I was forced to drag myself from my bed and look out my own window.”

  “What did you find?” Colin held up his cup to the footman who had appeared with a fresh pot of coffee. “An admirer of your own?”

  “I assure you, Hargreaves, no lady of my acquaintance would deign to place herself beneath my window and more’s the pity for it. No, what I saw was a flower man in his delivery wagon making a clatter that ought to be illegal at that time of night.”

  “Did he have auburn hair?” I asked. “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know what time it was—surely you do not expect me to be consulting timepieces in the middle of the night? And you cannot mean to suggest that the gentleman you described having seen in Café de Flore doubles as merchant? Even I can identify that as far-fetched, Em. No, it was not he. Well, at least not so far as I could tell. It was dark and I didn’t get a good look at him. By the time I got to the window, he was driving away.”

  “So much for stealth.” So far as I was concerned, this lack of finesse confirmed his identity as the auburn-haired man. He had exhibited the same qualities in Café de Flore. I shared these thoughts with Colin and Jeremy. My husband did not dismiss them, although Jeremy only just managed not to roll his eyes.

  “Was his suit ill-fitting?” he asked.

  “It was not. He had every appearance of a gentleman. Although he could not be described as fashionable, his clothes were well made, but the mud on his boots nagged at me. Perhaps they revealed the residue of his employment.”

  “Gentlemen are not employed.” Jeremy wiped his lips with a napkin. “Flower merchants do not spend their afternoons in cafés. There is an order to things, Em.”

  “Although it pains me to do so, Emily, I am afraid I must support Bainbridge’s beliefs on this matter. Had he got a look at the man’s face we might be in an altogether different situation.”

  “I shan’t argue with either of you. Regardless of the identity of the driver of the wagon, I hope you can agree that it is reasonable to surmise that the auburn-haired man—we really must find a better way to refer to him, but I am not yet certain that he is Magwitch—is behind the delivery.”

  “Yes.” Colin nodded. “That much is evident.”

  “Was anything written on the side of the wagon?” I asked.

  Jeremy produced, with a flourish, a scrap of paper from his pocket. “I knew you would ask, Em. Swiveller.”

  “The Old Curiosity Shop.” Colin set down his coffee. “Dick Swiveller, I believe, though I can’t say I remember anything else about him.”

  “I never much liked the book,” I said, “but I do recall that Mr. Swiveller was something of a hero. Good, at least.”

  “Perhaps we should rename the auburn-haired man after the author,” Jeremy suggested. “We could call him Charlie.”

  “There is no need to further confuse the situation,” Colin said. “Bainbridge, leave the social calls to Cécile today. She can handle them without you. Instead find out whatever you can about Swiveller.”

  “How am I to do that?”

  “Make inquiries at flower shops. Either Swiveller is a supplier or a florist with his own shop. It should not be difficult to determine which.”

  “And if I locate an address, am I to go there on my own?” Jeremy pushed away from the table. “I may joke otherwise, but I am here to assist, Hargreaves. Nonetheless, I am well aware that my lack of experience may prove an impediment. How should I proceed if I find Swiveller?”

  Colin sat, silent, for a moment. I could only assume he was in a state of shock at having heard Jeremy speak with such measured reason and intelligence. My husband, capable of adapting to nearly any situation, quickly reacquired the ability to speak. “You impress me, Bainbridge. If you find them, you might pay the shop a visit, but only to buy flowers. Do not risk asking any questions that might suggest you suspect there to be a connection between Swiveller and anything to do with our current case.”

  “Perhaps it would be best if I limited my investigations to the outside of the premises.”

  “An excellent idea.” Colin rose to his feet. “Emily, are you finished? Monsieur Pinard is expecting us.”

  * * *

  The solicitor greeted us cordially, offering his apologies both for having denied our previous request to examine his records, and for the general awkwardness of our visit. The latter made me blush, and the rising color of my cheeks attracted his notice. “You are a lovely creature,” he said to me, sotto voce, as he led us into a meeting room next to his office. More evidence of the abject failure of my ill-timed attempt at flirtation. I hoped he would not prove a pest.

  “I have pulled everything together for you and thought this room would give you ample space to spread out as you see fit. Mademoiselle Lamar was in Portugal when she authorized the payment that caught Scotland Yard’s attention. Here is the telegram.”

  The text, as is typical of messages conveyed through wires, was brief:

  PLEASE PAY £10 TO MRS. MARY DARBY, LONDON.

  It went on to include Mrs. Darby’s account details. “There is no explanation at all?” I was disappointed.

  “Mademoiselle Lamar does not often provide me with details.” Monsieur Pinard gave a half-smile. “I shall be in my office if you have any other questions.”

  Colin and I divided the work before us, splitting equally Monsieur Pinard’s ledgers. My eyes started to swim after several hours spent combing through the narrow rows of figures, but it was not in vain. First, we found exorbitant monthly payments made to Swiveller, our marauding nighttime florist. The amounts were so large that I popped into Monsieur Pinard’s office to inquire about them.

  “Oui, it seems to be more than it ought. I had the same reaction initially, but it is for all three of Mademoiselle Lamar’s houses.”

  “Swiveller supplies her in London? How can that be?”

  “I am not interested in the details, Lady Emily. Perhaps he has a shop there as well.”

  “And one in the south, conveniently located to the villa?”

  The solicitor shrugged. “I have no interest in arguing with Mademoiselle Lamar about her choice of florist. When considering the size of her three establishments, the amounts billed are what would be expected.”

  I returned to the antechamber and resumed my study of the ledgers, and soon had identified another oddity.

  “Are you drawing the same conclusion as I?” I asked Colin.

  “That is difficult to say, Emily. What is your conclusion?”

  “There are multiple entries for the equivalent of about £10 in various local cu
rrencies, paid out always to women. It is a not insignificant sum—as much as many servants earn in a year. Enough, certainly, to buy discretion. I have cross-referenced them with the chronology I put together from our various sources, and can say with confidence that they correspond perfectly to the locations Estella Lamar was supposedly visiting at the time of the payments.”

  “Hardly surprising that she would have made payments in the places she was.”

  “Yes, but always the same amount? And always made to a woman?” I pushed my notebook across the table to him. I had made a neat list of the transactions in question. “We know Mary Darby was pretending to be Estella. Is it not reasonable to conclude these other women had been hired to do the same?”

  He studied my notes and consulted the ledgers in front of him. “Well spotted, Emily. I can see a similar pattern in my half. If these women were hired to perform similarly to Mrs. Darby, what does it mean for Mademoiselle Lamar?”

  “I have very great concerns in that regard. I am afraid that we shall have to face delivering the worst sort of news to Cécile.”

  Estella

  xi

  Upon his return, her captor had called to her through the open trapdoor, but Estella remained perfectly still. She did not want to disturb her carefully choreographed pose as living effigy. A problem, he had said. Her lips quivered.

  “Are you awake down there?” he called.

  She heard his boots on the rungs of the ladder and then on the floor.

  “Mademoiselle! Are you unwell?”

  This brought her to her feet and in an instant the dread and the fear and the ache of pain in her chest were replaced by simple anger. “Unwell? You have the audacity to inquire after my well-being when you have locked me up in a prison and left me to die? I suppose you have come to do your worst, and I, sir, am ready to face the end.”

  “You cannot—I—surely—did you think?” He sputtered on like this incoherently for some time and gradually Estella came to accept that he had no immediate plans to kill her. “The bank would not cash the cheque. Having only just had one submitted for an identical amount against your late father’s account raised their suspicions. They will not release the funds until you respond confirming the transaction. They have sent a letter to your house.”

  “A letter I shall never receive.”

  “I thought, perhaps, you could write a reply nonetheless.” He produced a sheet of paper and an envelope, and laid them both on the slab along with a pen and ink. “I am so very sorry, mademoiselle, but they assured me that once they had your authorization in hand, they would honor the cheque. Of course, today is Friday, so that cannot be until Monday at the earliest.”

  “Monday?”

  “It is dreadful, I know, and I cannot begin to apologize for the additional delay. In an attempt to make things more comfortable for you, I have procured further supplies.” He opened the large bundle he had dropped through the trapdoor onto the floor. Inside were two rather attractive Oriental carpets made from the softest wool, a pillow, blankets, and a featherbed. He also had with him two additional lamps, a picnic basket full of culinary delights—more wine, four different cheeses, pâté, baguettes, brioche, pain au chocolat, and a raspberry tart—as well as another soft package that he handed to her. “You will want to open that yourself.”

  She tore the paper and found a flannel facecloth, soap, a linen nightgown, and an assortment of undergarments, stockings, and shirtwaists. “The shopgirl assured me this was what you would require. I told her my sister was visiting and that her trunks had gone missing at the station. There is more.” He disappeared up the ladder and returned with two large wooden buckets, one full of water, the other empty. “I thought you could use these to wash.”

  “Thank you.” Estella could hardly believe she had spoken the words. What thanks did this wretched man deserve? He had kidnapped her! She should never thank him for managing to provide her with these basic supplies. The very idea outraged her.

  “I know it does not go far in making up for what I have done to you, and I shall never be able to forgive myself. I hope that you can at least gain a small measure of satisfaction that you—even if unwillingly—will shortly have saved my life.”

  Estella made no reply.

  “Would you like more books? The Dickens is one of my favorites. I was so pleased to find the French edition.”

  “How are you paying for all of this?” she asked.

  His countenance darkened. “On credit. I shall pay the bills with a bit of the money from your cheque.”

  “So you admit to having asked for more than you owed?”

  “Not much, I swear, Mademoiselle Lamar. I knew I had to get food and supplies for you. I should have told you as much, but I thought it awkward in the situation.”

  “Awkward?” Estella frowned. “Yes, I suppose that is one way of describing having to pay for one’s own kidnapping.”

  “Is there anything else you require? I will get you whatever you want.”

  Except freedom, she thought. She looked around her. The carpets had gone a long way to improving the space, and the bedding would vastly improve her sleep. “There is one thing.” Her eyes grew very wide as she spoke, and her voice jumped an octave. “I should like one of my dolls.”

  “Your dolls?”

  “Bettina is my favorite, but you would not know how to find her in the nursery. I could try to explain—”

  “It might be quite risky for me to search your house for a doll,” he interrupted. “Fetching the cheque was much easier as it was on the ground floor. I imagine the nursery is not quite so accessible. What sort of doll is she? I could find you a similar one in the shops.”

  “She has the loveliest green eyes, just like my own, and a pretty porcelain face. I don’t mind what color her dress is, so long as it is trimmed with lace.”

  As she spoke, a feeling of dread came over him. There was something about Mademoiselle Lamar that was not quite cricket. He had not noticed it before, but seeing her speak about this doll—the very idea that in her current situation she would choose to request a doll of all things—unsettled him. He wanted this business concluded in as rapid a fashion as possible.

  First, though, he had to buy a doll.

  12

  When Colin and I, blurry eyed, left Monsieur Pinard’s office, Jeremy was waiting for us. He was leaning against the building, his hat pulled low, an umbrella hooked over his arm, and a copy of Le Figaro in his hand. “I did not know you could read French.” I gently tapped his shoulder with the ferrule of my parasol. “What other secrets are you hiding?”

  “Fluent French is essential for leading a truly debauched life, Em. You ought to know that.” He folded the paper. “Sorry to hover about waiting for you like this, but I found myself unaccountably excited by what I learned about our mysterious florist.”

  “Do tell!”

  He offered me his arm—Colin shook his head and smiled, so I knew he would not object to my taking it—and we started to walk. “We must sit somewhere so I can recount the entire story with every thrilling detail.” At this, I began to worry he was being facetious, but the flash in his eyes and the vigorous spring in his step as he all but dragged me along the block could only be indicative of earnest sincerity. Being in Paris, we had to walk no more than fifty feet before reaching an amiable-looking café, where, once seated, Jeremy ordered coffees for all of us.

  “But I don’t care for coffee,” I said. “You know that.”

  “You will require the fortification, I promise you.” The mere fact that he was considering coffee a fortifier rather than a stimulant was very nearly shocking enough for me to go along with his plan, but I stopped the waiter and told him to bring me chocolat instead.

  “Please do not prolong our anticipation.” I folded my hands neatly in my lap and gave Jeremy an encouraging nod.

  “You will want your notebook at the ready, Em.” Truly, he was warming to his subject to an alarming degree. “I visited six florists
in succession, and though I can say with confidence that there is a rage in Paris for freesia at the moment, I was unable to learn a thing about Swiveller. No one in any of the shops showed even the slightest recognition when I mentioned the name. The bloke in the sixth shop suggested I go to the Marché aux Fleurs on the Île de la Cité—do you know it?”

  “On the place Louis-Lépine near Notre-Dame?” I asked.

  “The very one. I have always before operated under what I now believe to be a delusion that markets are open only during the earliest hours of the morning, but this most helpful florist assured me that the Marché is open all day—every day. Can you believe it? Evidently there is a bird market there as well on Sundays, so consider yourself warned if you want to peruse orchids untroubled by the competing songs of an unholy variety of species.”

  “So you went to the market?” Colin asked.

  “Just so. Once there, I queried at stall after stall, but no one could tell me anything about Swiveller until, at last, I came to a rather fetching young lady who was manning her father’s stand. She told me Swiveller isn’t a regular florist, but a company that serves a small number of private—and wealthy—individuals. Monsieur Swiveller, as she referred to the proprietor, has a reputation in certain circles for exquisite taste and utter discretion. I took that to mean that one might trust him to keep straight which orders were meant for one’s wife and which for one’s mistress.”

  “Did you get an address?” Colin asked.

  “Eventually, yes, but it is not at all what you think,” Jeremy said. “First, she sent me to a drafty old covered ground in a part of town so nasty one could hardly believe it belongs to Paris. If it does, the map ought to be redrawn to exclude it. Inside is where growers from the country bring their blooms to sell to city florists.”