Tragedy. Unusual to lose sibling and both parents so young. Did Gavin stumble upon something to do with Johnny’s childhood: a secret or cover-up, for instance? Could “accidental drowning” or “accidental death” in fact be…death by design?
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end at this thought. I’d never dealt with a case that concerned someone’s death—past or present. And with the threat to Gavin, this was proving to be my most dangerous case yet. I put my notebook away and asked, Where do I start?
Right where you are, I told myself as my bus came to a slow and careful stop in the heart of Marylebone, two hundred yards from Johnny Vane Ltd.
After getting off the bus, I made my way as quickly as possible to the Vane offices and presented myself at the reception desk. I was led into a showroom full of models. There I tried on a dress and walked for the casting director, then posed for a quick picture before changing back into my own clothes. The casting went well and quickly. But I wasn’t about to leave without first trying to meet Georgie.
As I left the showroom, I stopped an assistant and quickly mentioned that I had an interesting photo I wanted to show Georgie Vane. “Would it be possible,” I asked, “to see her for a few minutes?”
The assistant seemed to buy this. “Sure,” she answered. “I’ll give her a call and see if she has time.”
She rang Georgie and, keeping her eyes on me, told her what I’d explained.
“Exactly. Axelle Anderson. Hmm…no time? Okay, I’ll tell her.”
I put my hand up and loudly said, “Tell Georgie it’s an old photo of her brothers. I think it’ll interest her.”
I’d been hoping Georgie would hear me—and my idea must have worked because next the assistant said, “Yes,” and then after a few seconds’ silence, “Fine, I’ll send her up right away.”
Ha, I thought. Now let’s see if I can get anything out of her.
The assistant got off the phone and called a lift for me, directing me up to the fourth floor.
Georgie didn’t say anything as she opened the door to her office and motioned for me to come in. She was wearing ill-fitting trousers, a silk blouse of nondescript color, and a cardigan that was way too small. Her medium-brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, and a large pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looked about as unfashionable as a person can look. Charlotte’s comment about Georgie never moving up the ranks of the company came to mind. I wasn’t surprised. Fashion publicists are normally the most fashion-conscious people you’ll ever meet.
She sat watching me across a messy desk piled high with files and papers. A vase of wilting flowers and various half-finished cups of coffee only added to the disorder. On the shelves behind her, knickknacks and mementos made a busy, colorful background. Books lined some of the walls, some of them obvious favorites, if the slips of paper sticking out of them were anything to go by. In fact, the only stylish-looking thing in her office was a silver-framed photo of her brother, Johnny. Decked out in his usual black-leather biker jacket, black jeans, and studded fingerless gloves and silver rings, he seemed to be keeping an eye on me. For a moment it mildly freaked me out.
“Hi, Axelle,” she finally said as she reached across her desk to shake my hand. “I’m Georgie. Millie says you’ve got something to show me. An old photo?”
I nodded and sat down as she motioned to the empty chair opposite her. I pulled my tablet from my shoulder bag and brought the photo up on the screen. With a quick prayer to the detective gods that Georgie wasn’t the person who’d attacked Gavin, I handed her the tablet.
She sat quietly for a few moments, looking carefully at the photo. Meanwhile, I quickly scanned her desk. I was looking for something—and I saw it just as she cleared her throat and passed me my tablet. She sat back, saying nothing, and loudly clicked a pen she held in her left hand.
“Do you know anything about the photo, Georgie?”
She nodded. “It’s of my brothers when they were very young.” Ah! I thought, finally I had confirmation that the photo was indeed of Johnny and Julian.
After a moment Georgie asked, “Where did you find it?”
I was scared of saying too much—I didn’t want to end up unconscious on the Embankment like Gavin—but I had to push the case forward. I took a quick breath and said, “A friend, the photographer Gavin Tempest, gave it to me. Do you know him?”
Georgie answered right away. “Yes, of course. He shot a reportage piece on Johnny recently. But why did he give you that photo? Do you know him well?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “He thought I might find it interesting. He gave it to me before he was taken to the hospital on Sunday…after he was mugged.”
“Oh no,” she said as she stood up abruptly. Then, with her back to me, she looked out the large window to the right of her desk. Without a moment’s hesitation I reached for the “something” on her desk that I’d noticed a few minutes earlier: her address book. “Where did it happen?” she continued. Her voice sounded constricted, as if she was having trouble getting the words out.
I opened the address book quickly. T, U, V, W…W…Wimple. There it was! Jane Wimple. “On the Embankment near Westminster Bridge,” I said. “I thought you might know… Word tends to travel fast in the fashion world.”
Jane Wimple, 16 St. Leonard’s Terrace, Chelsea. There it was! And I knew the street. I memorized the address and put the book back on Georgie’s desk just as she turned around.
“I haven’t heard a word,” she said, looking right at me. “Is he all right?”
I nodded and tried to look innocent. “Sort of. He suffered a head injury. But they’re hoping he’ll be out of the hospital by the beginning of next week.” I watched her for a moment before I continued. “I thought you might be able to tell me something about the photo, like where it was taken.”
She looked at me but didn’t say a word.
“Or perhaps how Gavin would have gotten hold of it.”
Still she said nothing, but she started clicking her pen again. After a moment she said, her voice taut, “Why are you showing me this photo, Axelle?”
I didn’t want to tell Georgie about the stick, so I kept my answer vague. “Curiosity. I’m assuming it’s a personal family photo…so how did Gavin get hold of it?”
Still she said nothing, so I pushed further. “He seemed to think it was important. I thought that you might be able to tell me why.”
Georgie shrugged her shoulders. “You’ll have to ask him when he gets out of the hospital. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
She looked at her watch and said, “I’m afraid I have to get going, Axelle. I have an appointment in ten minutes. But it was lovely to meet you, and thank you for showing me the photo.”
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Mega-Mansion and Megastar
Sebastian saw me first. He was waiting on the westbound platform of the Hammersmith & City line. I’d sent him a message as soon as I’d finished at the Vane offices, and since he wasn’t too far from where I was in Marylebone, we agreed to meet at Baker Street station. “No surprise seeing you here, Holmes,” he said, smiling as he jumped into my car, sat next to me, and gave me a quick kiss.
“Very funny, Watson,” I said. Sebastian was referring to the fact that Sherlock Holmes had supposedly lived on Baker Street.
We sat side by side, and as the train left the station, Sebastian quietly fleshed out the information he’d given me earlier.
“Well done, Watson. You seem to have good sources no matter what city we’re in,” I whispered as I thought of how he’d tracked down vital information in New York while working there on our last case.
He shrugged his broad shoulders and turned to smile at me. “If I’m going to be a crime reporter, it’s in my interest to find good sources. Then again, I’ve been learning the tricks of the trade since I was knee high.” As the son
of the Chief Inspector of Paris, he certainly had a point.
“And you’d be surprised,” he continued, suddenly putting on a thick French accent, “’ow much it ’elps to be a foreigner in your country.”
In fact, Sebastian’s English was excellent. His accent was so slight that it was barely discernible.
“People get very tired very quickly of heavy accents,” he explained. “All I have to do is repeat myself slowly a couple of times, and they lose their patience and end up telling me everything I want to know as quickly as they can just to get rid of me. Works every time.” He smiled.
I brought Sebastian up to date on all the new information I had—the invitation to the La Lune party at Kensington Gardens and what I found out in my meetings with Caro and Georgie. I also told him about Tallulah’s call. “It’s proof that Gavin is still in terrible danger. We need to move faster.”
“It’s just like you said last night. Someone wants to silence him for good. Poor Gavin,” said Sebastian, suddenly looking serious.
“I know,” I said. “We’ve got to work fast.”
I pulled my notebook out and opened it for Sebastian to see. “There’s this too,” I said.
“Jane Wimple’s address? How’d you get that?”
“Ah, Watson, you’re not the only one with good sources.”
But Sebastian didn’t buy it. He leaned back and narrowed his eyes at me. “That didn’t come from ‘a source.’ No, no, no,” he teased. “My gut tells me, dear Holmes, that you took that information. Nobody gave it to you, did they?”
I didn’t say anything.
“I knew it! You even made a point of saying that Georgie’s desk was messy. You were practically bragging. That’s where you got it, isn’t it? I bet you sneaked a look in her address book, didn’t you?”
“Well, I can’t help it if she just leaves things lying around. And anyway, what’s the big difference between your tactics and mine?”
“Ah! Well, my tactic is called sourcing—and it requires finesse. Your tactic, on the other hand, is simply…stealing.”
“Trust me, it took a lot of finesse to get that information, considering Georgie had her eyes glued to me for nearly our entire meeting!” I stuck my tongue out at Sebastian and he laughed.
“So where do you want to start?” he said.
“Well, I thought we could take a look at Dawson Place. It’s literally a ten-minute walk from home. We can pick up Halley and grab a bite to eat on our way there. We should have just enough time before I go for my Teen Chic booking. Did you manage to trace the housekeeper or handyman, by the way?”
“No. My search dead-ended.”
“No problem. I might know someone who can help, but let’s check out the house first.”
Then Sebastian reminded me of his plan to visit the hospital while I was at my booking. “I would say it’s urgent now. With a bit of luck, maybe I can unearth some nugget of information to add to what we have.”
I agreed.
“But going to the hospital,” Sebastian explained, “means that I won’t have time to get to the Thames—if we have to be at the La Lune party in the early evening. What do you want to do?”
“Hmm…well, I definitely need to see the river at low tide.”
Sebastian looked into his jacket pocket and pulled a folded piece of paper from his notebook. “This is the timetable,” he said as he studied the columns of tiny numbers. “The tide will be low again at…22:51. Could we go then? After the party?”
I nodded. “Perfect, Watson. And maybe we can stop by Jane Wimple’s house on the way there. It’s on the way to Westminster from Kensington Gardens.”
“So if we leave Belle’s by around nine p.m. and walk to Notting Hill Gate Tube station,” he said, studying the Tube map just to the left of the train door. “Stop by Jane Wimple’s…”
“That would be Sloane Square.”
“And then continue to Westminster, we can get to the river with time to spare. Which reminds me—I was thinking about a boat trip.” Sebastian pulled his phone out and looked something up. “The last boats going up and down the Thames leave at eleven p.m. It could be romantic.”
“‘It could be romantic’ is very different from ‘It will be romantic,’ you know.”
“I like your attitude, Holmes. You keep me on my toes.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank you, Watson.”
“Any time.”
I didn’t say anything, but Sebastian was looking at me.
“What?” I finally asked.
“Aren’t you going to tell me what you like about me?”
He looked seriously cute, but I wasn’t about to get off course. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, Watson,” I said, smiling. “In case you’ve forgotten, we have a case to solve—and that’s what we should be discussing now. Speaking of which, I’ll have to think of something to tell my mom—about why I’m out late, I mean—something that won’t make her suspicious. Westminster isn’t exactly in my neighborhood, plus she doesn’t like me staying out late on a weeknight.”
“Blame it on me,” Sebastian said. “Tell her that I’d like to do some sightseeing—London at night by boat.”
I nodded. “Okay. Although, just so you know, if I get home too late, my mom will definitely send Scotland Yard after us.” I smiled.
“By the way,” Sebastian said a minute later, “I did find out a bit about Jane Wimple and Caro Moretti.” He pulled out his notebook and read from it. “According to Vogue magazine, Jane has been a major influence on Johnny’s life. She used to work for”—Sebastian stopped to look through his notes—“ah, yes, Ossie Clark. She met Clarissa Vane there, and after they got to know each other, Jane started working for the Vanes as a private secretary.
“Later, apparently after Johnny and Julian were born, she became more of a nanny. I’m not sure why she left Ossie Clark’s design studio though. She’s never married or had children, and according to another recent Vogue article, she remains very much involved in Johnny’s life. It sounds like they’re still really close.”
That, I thought, jibed with what Ellie had told me the previous day. “Good work, Watson. And what about Caro Moretti?”
“Well…” I watched as he flipped through his notebook. “When her sister died, she became Johnny and Georgie Vane’s legal guardian. Incidentally, she was already living with them—Clarissa and the kids, I mean—and had been since James Vane died.”
Hmm…so why hadn’t Caro admitted to me earlier that she knew the boys in the photo?
“You know what, Holmes?” Sebastian suddenly asked as our train pulled into Royal Oak station. “It feels quite nice to be able to tell you something you don’t already know—especially on your home turf.” He was grinning broadly.
“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited, Watson. It might be a while before you get another chance,” I teased back. Then we jumped off the train and headed for home.
On the way to my house I quickly ran my eyes over my TBLI list and found something I’d forgotten to ask Tallulah: did she know where Gavin had found the old photo of Johnny and Julian Vane? I reached for my phone and called her to ask just that.
“To be honest, I don’t know for certain,” she explained, “but a few days after he’d done the shoot at Johnny Vane’s, an unmarked envelope was slipped under the street door of our apartment building. Gavin’s name was on it, but nothing else. I remember giving it to him and him disappearing with it. When I asked him later what had been in the envelope, he said, ‘It’s just something I’ve been asked to look into.’
“Again, I can’t be certain it was that photo, and Gavin does get lots of mail and packets and stuff. I suppose that’s why I didn’t think the envelope was important. I’d never have thought about it if you hadn’t asked. I’m just guessing that’s where the ‘old photo’ came from. That probably doesn’t help yo
u much, but it’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.”
On the contrary, I thought, it does help…
“How can knowing—or rather believing—that Gavin was sent the photo possibly help?” Sebastian asked when I told him what Tallulah had said.
Having picked up Halley (and made yet another copy of the old photo), we were now on trendy Westbourne Grove, the two of us eating warm paninis we’d ordered from the takeout place on the corner. We were a short walk from Dawson Place. “Well, I’m just kicking ideas around, but I have to start somewhere…”
“Go ahead.”
“The fact that the photo was delivered anonymously has given me an idea,” I answered. “Rather than simply stumbling across something on his own, maybe Gavin was helped or maybe even prompted into uncovering something.”
“By whom?”
“Maybe someone who’s frightened or, less possibly, has a score to settle.”
“Why less possibly?”
“Because if what’s happened to Gavin was caused by a forty-year-old dirty secret, someone has waited a very long time to settle that score. Furthermore, asking someone else to do your dirty work is an oddly subtle way to get even. I mean, isn’t the whole point of revenge that your intended victim knows that you’re the one bringing grief upon them? Think about it. All the best retaliation leaves the victim in no doubt as to who’s gotten even. Sending a photo anonymously on the other hand—”
“How do you know the sender didn’t identify themselves? There might have been a note with the photo.”
“Remember: it was an unmarked envelope quietly slipped under the door, which suggests to me that even if there was a note inside—and there probably was something confirming the boys’ identity—it wasn’t signed. If they’d been willing to sign it, what would be the point of secretly hand delivering it?”
“Ah, I see.”
“Which reminds me…” I took my phone out and quickly sent Tallulah a message asking if she knew where the photo Gavin had received was, or if she’d come across a note anywhere that might have been sent with it.
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