City of Light (City of Mystery) (15 page)

“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 hide
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 drunk 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
August.  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.