Estella
xix
Hettie was a beautiful doll, quite as lovely as any her father had ever given her. Monsieur Jones had outdone himself! And he had brought Estella fabric—a good, sturdy wool in a practical navy that very nearly matched one of her own new outfits—so that she could sew an appropriate travel costume for Hettie, and now that she had completed that, there was nothing to further delay the trip. Despite Monsieur Jones’s repeated admonishments, she had declined to interview Miss Hexam in person. Every detail of the lady’s experience and references confirmed to Estella that she would make a perfect companion. The letters the two ladies had exchanged were enough to persuade Estella to hire her with no compunction. Monsieur Jones needed to come to terms with the fact that he was no longer in charge.
Estella smiled when she considered how very different her circumstances were now to those when, not so long ago, she had feared Monsieur Jones, and thought of him only as her captor. Now, he was something else: her liberator, and this made her consider him with the warmest of emotions. He was more loyal to her than any of the servants in her parents’ numerous houses had been, and she intended to reward him generously for his efforts.
The only thing lacking was a fresh supply of books about Egypt. Monsieur Jones insisted she had exhausted the entire supply of Parisian shops, and that it was time to rely on her own observations of the country. The steamer would leave Marseille in three days. Estella smiled every time she thought about it.
20
The bulky person manning the desk at the front of the offices of the Sûreté stared at me blankly when I introduced myself. He appeared equally unimpressed when I told him the identity of my husband. When I explained to him that I was here on behalf of a French citizen who may have come to an inglorious end, he covered his mouth with his hand. It was an inelegant gesture that did little to hide his muffled laughter. Sensitive to the signs of outrage, which were currently boiling in the deep recesses of my chest, I thought it best to speak to his superior, hoping that gentleman would prove less useless.
Monsieur Valapart emerged from behind a closed door and greeted us before offering us tea and ushering us into his office. He apologized for his underling’s treatment. “Molestre has no manners with ladies. I pray you will not hold his lack of breeding against the entire Sûreté?” His charming smile made it impossible to answer his question in any way but the affirmative.
After barraging Monsieur Valapart with a brief series of questions, I determined that he was reasonably familiar with Colin’s work on the Mary Darby case, including the search of the Catacombs currently in progress. I explained to him our theories about the connection to Estella Lamar, and as he listened, his face, lined with age and wisdom, grew serious.
“We have had no reports of anything amiss with Mademoiselle Lamar. My understanding is that she is currently in London.”
“You keep track of her?” I asked.
“I read the papers.”
“The papers did not say she was in London. Their last accounting of her, I believe, was in Siam.”
“And so it may be. Her solicitor, Monsieur Pinard, has been in touch, only this morning. He is concerned about you, Lady Emily. He feels you are violating the privacy of his client and mentioned, during the course of our conversation, that Mademoiselle Lamar was recently in London. Perhaps I misunderstood.”
“Monsieur Pinard knows full well that we have no reason to believe Mademoiselle Lamar was recently in London. We do, however, suspect that she may be in Paris, but it is possible that the letter she sent to her dear friend, Madame du Lac, is a forgery.” I passed to him the document in question. “I am aware of the superior reputation of the Sûreté, and I know that my own country’s Scotland Yard was modeled after your excellent organization. As a result, you will hardly be surprised that I would turn to you for advice concerning handwriting experts. Surely you have one you could recommend?”
“The science is not so reliable as I would like, Lady Emily, but I can send you to Monsieur Nalot, a man we consult on occasion.” He scrawled a note, sealed it, and handed it to me. “This will serve as a letter of introduction. His address is on the front.”
We continued to chat with him briefly—I quizzed him to see if he would reveal anything else he knew about the case, he inquired after Colin’s injuries from the previous night—and we thanked him for his time. He insisted on walking us out, and hailed a cab for us.
“A pleasant enough man,” Cécile said as the cab pulled away from the curb. “I notice, though, that he was careful to tell us nothing we did not already know.”
“I expected nothing else. Interesting that Monsieur Pinard is cross enough to report me to the Sûreté. At least, however, Monsieur Valapart has given us Monsieur Nalot. Let us hope the introduction proves fruitful.” We had to stop in at Cécile’s to collect the diary before continuing on to the handwriting man’s premises. This enabled us to switch from the cab to the carriage which we had earlier dismissed, thinking the afternoon would be good for nothing but a walk home after we had left Neal’s Library.
When we called, Monsieur Nalot was home, in humble but well-kept rooms in a building just west of the Hôtel des Invalides. His clothing, which was tailored beautifully, told me he was not without a decent income, but that he chose to spend it on something other than furnishings. He scrutinized Monsieur Valapart’s letter, going so far as to study it with a magnifying glass, while he kept us standing just inside his door, but in the end he must have determined it to be legitimate as he invited us to sit.
“These are the documents in question.” I handed him the diary and the letter, as well as two other letters purported to have been written by Estella after the commencement of her travels.
“Can you confirm Mademoiselle Lamar penned this diary?” he asked.
Anticipating this question, I had insisted that we make a stop at Estella’s house on our way, where I collected a number of letters she had written to her mother before that woman’s death, as well as a stack of canceled cheques from the years before she left France, each bearing her signature.
Monsieur Nalot spread all of these out on the ledge at the bottom of a long slanted desk above which hung a bright electric light. “Handwriting is something to which we give very little consideration, once we have left the schoolroom. We use it almost constantly, but rarely think about it. When we are writing, we are more conscious of the words we choose than the manner in which we form their letters. As a result, it is difficult for us to fully understand what it is, precisely, that makes our own handwriting unique—and I assure you that every individual’s is unique. When you consider the challenges faced by a forger, this lack of active knowledge comes firmly into play. It is extremely difficult for anyone to wholly rid his writing of the unique characteristics that identify it.”
“Yet some forgers manage to do just that,” I said.
“Yes, certainly, but it is rare. Extremely rare. A forgery may deceive you or even the police, but to an expert—like myself—the differences are often easily discernible.”
“I brought this as well.” I passed him a sample of the papers we had collected from Mr. Jones’s attic. “I cannot be absolutely certain they were penned by the man we suspect of forgery, but it is likely they are in his handwriting.”
“This is quite a gift! It will make my work much easier.” He started with the letters to Estella’s mother, making notes on a large sheet of paper, sometimes drawing large examples of letters. He seemed particularly interested in her capital Es and her lowercase ys and ds. Next he studied the diary, followed by the more recent letters. He made what seemed only a cursory study of Mr. Jones’s papers. When at last, more than an hour later, he looked up from his table, he rubbed his eyes and offered us cognac, which we refused. “If you do not mind, I will indulge. I find that in small amounts it combats the strain to my eyes that my work inflicts.”
I did not like to rush him, but was frantic to hear his results. “Have we
given you enough to make a conclusion possible?”
“What I have done, Lady Emily, is only a very brief analysis, but it is enough for me to say with confidence that the same individual who wrote the letters to Estella’s mother wrote the diary, as well as the letter to Madame du Lac. It is not, however, the same person who wrote what you identify as having belonged to Monsieur Jones. The other two letters—the ones describing Estella’s travels—appear to have been written in a hurry, but exhibit all the same characteristics of Estella’s other papers. If you look here”—he held open the diary for us—“you can see the way she forms the loops of her ys. They are identical in the letters.” He detailed for us other defining characteristics, and then showed us how Mr. Jones’s method of forming letters differed.
“So you are quite certain that Estella wrote all of these?” I asked.
“There can be no question, so long as you are confident she signed the cheques and wrote the letters to her mother.”
Of that we had no doubt. Which could only mean one thing: Estella was in Paris, and very much alive, at least when she had written the letter. We thanked Monsieur Nalot, and I inquired whether I could consult him in the future should the need arise. He agreed to this with a pleasant smile, and I told him I hoped we would meet again, as I was fascinated by his skills. I wondered if I might even be able to persuade him to offer me lessons in his art. We could not linger at present, though. Back in the carriage, we directed the driver to take us to the Catacombs, where I knew if we could not readily find Colin and Jeremy, we would at least learn from the officer guarding the entrance where we should seek them.
Estella may have been alive to write the letter, but I had great concerns about her present state.
* * *
Cécile was blissfully unconcerned. “This proves it, Kallista. Estella is a strange woman. I would not be surprised to find that she, herself, is Swiveller.”
“Don’t be naïve, Cécile. Estella would have no reason to be Swiveller. She has control of her own finances and does not need to pay herself in order to access her funds. We now know that she wrote the letter. The diary tells us she was in Egypt, and that Mr. Jones was with her. Mr. Jones, the same man who tried to kill my husband, knocked Jeremy unconscious and murdered Mary Darby. Can you truly believe this individual, who has so much information about Estella’s travels, is not involved at all in her disappearance?”
“Estella disappeared, if it can even be called that, of her own accord. I have no doubt I will receive a letter from her soon after she reaches the Côte d’Ivoire.”
I did not share my friend’s confidence. By the time we reached the Catacombs, Colin and Jeremy were standing outside the entrance, speaking to several police officers. All of them were covered with the dust and grime one would expect for them to have attracted during their underground search.
“Did you find anything of note?” I asked, picking a cobweb out of Colin’s hair and pulling him away from the group before relating to him everything I had learned in the course of the day.
“No evidence of Jones and no signs of anything amiss in the parts of the ossuary open to the public. We spent hours searching farther afield, focusing on the passages nearest to the apartment. There is plenty of evidence in those of habitation even, and the police tell me they are aware of groups of people who meet underground for various purposes.”
“To practice the black arts, no doubt.”
Colin raised an eyebrow and answered in a flat tone. “No doubt. Regardless, I saw nothing to suggest that Estella has been there. I gather that is what you fear?”
“Precisely.”
He brushed some of the dust off his jacket sleeves and squinted. “I agree, Emily, that something is amiss, but I cannot yet identify what it is.”
“Can we search again tomorrow—and I do mean we—there may be something you missed.”
“The network of tunnels beneath the city is so extensive it would take weeks to search. I think we had better apply ourselves to further examination of Jones’s documents.”
“Cécile and I did not get all of them. There was a filing cabinet—”
He bowed and swept his hand in front of his body to indicate that I should start walking. “The carriage awaits, dear lady. I have already sent the police with the contents of the cabinet to Cécile’s, thinking you would be there to receive it. I did not realize you had other plans for the day.”
“I still think—”
“I am happy to order a continued search of the tunnels, my dear, but there is no reason for you—”
“I may notice something none of you did.”
“You often do, but right now it makes much better sense for you to apply yourself to the contents of Jones’s cabinet.” I knew he was trying to prevent me from the horror of finding Estella’s body, and I appreciated the gesture even though I considered it unnecessary. He walked me to the carriage, in front of which Cécile and Jeremy were still standing. Once he had helped both of us ladies into it, he closed the door.
“You gentlemen are not going to accompany us?” Cécile asked while I frowned.
“No,” he replied. “I am following the most excellent advice of my wife and am going to take another stroll through the Catacombs, this time keeping in mind a different objective.”
“Does he agree with you that Estella may be in trouble?” Cécile asked as the carriage pulled away.
“He is humoring me. Think nothing of it.” I saw no benefit in persuading her to worry.
The police had removed not only the contents of Mr. Jones’s cabinet, but the cabinet itself, to Cécile’s entrance hall. A footman, his face twisted in apology, said he had not known where else to put it. “I was afraid, madame, that its filth would leave a mark on any carpet.” A ring of dusty dirt surrounded it on the marble floor. The footman barked an order to the maid who was already coming down the steps. “This is the third time she will have swept around it. The object, madame, sheds dirt like the most disagreeable sort of cat leaves deposits of fur.” As if on cue, Caesar and Brutus bounded—so far as their short legs allowed for bounding—to their owner and yapped at the hem of her skirt.
“You have done all that is possible.” She shooed away the maid and scooped up the little dogs. “There is no point in continuing until we have finished with the wretched thing.”
I asked the footman to bring us chairs and a narrow table, and we set to it. We did not need to fiddle with the lock; I presume the police had seen to that. Of the four drawers, two were filled with older versions of what we had found on Mr. Jones’s desk: itineraries, notes about hotels, railway timetables. The other two were of more interest.
The first initially appeared to have nothing at all to do with Estella. The front section contained papers detailing plans for something called Dr. Maynard’s Patented Formula—a substance that, so far as I could tell, differed not from hundreds of its kind, worthless liquids of indeterminate color and bitter taste that had no effect whatsoever on the complaints they claimed to treat. Six bottles of the stuff took up the back of the drawer, their exuberant labels claiming myriad health benefits.
I paged through the documents, not expecting to find much of interest, but was taken aback when I came across a drawing of the label, done as a sample, on a single sheet of large paper. In the center was a large pyramid, much like those found at Giza, entwined with vines that ended, on either side, with a burst of floral blossom. Across the bottom of the page was Estella’s signature, and the word approved. “Have you ever heard of this?” I held one of the bottles up to Cécile. She shook her head. “It seems that Estella was in business with Mr. Jones. At least she was consulted as to the design of the label.”
“I do remember this,” Cécile said. “She mentioned it in passing once, some months before she left Paris, when she had been casting about for something in which to invest. I told her at the time it was an awful idea, and she never brought it up again.”
“It must be how she met Mr. Jones.
Perhaps she thought he would make a better porter than a salesman and convinced him to abandon the stuff in favor of world travel.” The last drawer, the bottom one, held a mishmash of receipts, most of no consequence, but among them were four that merited further consideration, from Au Nain Bleu, a name I recognized because I had intended to procure for my boys little presents from this well-known toy shop. Each of the receipts was for the purchase of a doll, and each was dated after Estella had supposedly left Egypt. None of the descriptions of the dolls matched the one currently residing in Mr. Jones’s wardrobe.
“I cannot believe he bought these for anyone but Estella?”
“He could have sent them to her abroad.”
“Theoretically possible, yes, but my instinct tells me he did not. He has her, I am convinced of it.”
“In the Catacombs, you think?” Cécile asked. I very much appreciated my friend not pointing out the general inadequacy of intuition in detective work. My husband would not have been so kind.
“Where else but the Catacombs?” Adopting my husband’s habit, I started to pace. “The tunnels go on for miles, and Jones had ready access to them from his own cellar. He has kept her alive all this time in order to steal her money.”
“But we had already determined, had we not, that he does not seem to be benefiting from her money?”
“Not so far as we can yet tell, but we have missed something fundamental about the character of Mr. Farrington Jones.”
“Farrington?” Cécile looked down her nose, disgust writ on her face.
The Counterfeit Heiress: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries) Page 23
