City of Light (City of Mystery) (18 page)

Slipping his hand
down to the valise wedged between his feet, Trevor pulled out the file which contained
all of Rayley’s letters. They had been neatly sequenced by Davy in
chronological order, and Trevor flipped through them once again, looking for
some small hint he might have somehow missed.  It was a sunny day, warm for
April, and despite the stiff wind, the passing had been smooth so far. Yet
Rayley’s handwriting, which was tightly knotted and hard to decipher even in
the best of circumstances, bobbed steadily before his eyes and within ten
minutes Trevor could feel the beginning of a headache.  

Abandoning the
letters, Trevor settled back on the thin cushions and prepared to feign a nap. 
The headache could just as easily be from exhaustion as eye strain, for the last
twelve hours had been a whirlwind of activity.  He had returned to his quarters
from Geraldine’s house, hastily tossed some clothes into a trunk, then spent
the majority of the night scribbling notes to leave for Davy.  He had no doubt
that the boy would be able to generate a series of brief reports that would
satisfy the admittedly-limited interest Scotland Yard had in the activities of
the forensics team and, until Charles Hammond could be found and returned to London,
the Cleveland Street case was at a halt.  Still, there is nothing like the
prospect of being gone for an indefinite amount of time to make a man aware of
all the untied threads in his life, and once he had begun writing the notes for
Davy, Trevor had found it hard to stop.  

Their ship had
sailed at the unconscionable hour of five, but the lad had insisted on
accompanying them to the dock for a send off.  He had stood, a small and solitary
figure, waving a red-gloved hand in the darkness and Trevor had momentarily
lost his ability to speak.  It was not merely that this would be the first time
he had left his mother country to venture to the mainland, although that in
itself was enough of an event to give a man pause.  It was more that in this
early departure he couldn’t help but remember the similar morning last November
when Rayley had sat sail.  He and Davy had seen him to the same dock, had stood
witness as the man crossed the gangplank and then turned, briefly, for a final
salute.  At the time they had all believed that Rayley faced no greater dangers
than embarrassment over his inability to speak French and perhaps a bout of
seasickness.

Trevor exhaled slowly,
and deepened his breathing.  Although he still felt a bit pirated into this mad
scheme, he had to admit that if they were going at all, it was fortunate
Geraldine had the right connections and yes, enough money to make the pieces of
the trip fit together so swiftly.  The hotels of Paris had proven full, but she
had contacted a distant cousin, a man who owned a small apartment on the Rue de
Tremont.  By the way Geraldine and Tom were discussing the apartment’s
proximity to an evidently famous park, Trevor could only conclude that it was located
in a luxurious part of town, the Parisian equivalent of a Mayfair address.

Geraldine had warned
the living quarters would be cramped, although what she considered cramped
would probably feel like a palace to Trevor.  Not only were they lucky to have
quarters at all on the eve of the Exposition, but now that he had a moment to
ponder the situation, Trevor realized an apartment would be a far better base
of operations than a hotel.  The group could confer at leisure about their
findings, with no danger of being overhead in a lobby or café. 

Besides, an address
in an established neighborhood would lend respectability to their little group
and Gerry would be indispensible there as well, he suspected. For all her avant
garde interests and left-leaning political views, Geraldine had never hesitated
to play her aristocratic trump card whenever she deemed it useful.  She and Tom
were consulting over a sheet of notepaper which contained a list of the
obliging cousin’s social circle, people who would greet the Bainbridges as
equals, and thus as friends.

“These soirees are
so tiresome,” Geraldine was saying.  “But necessary if we are to find dear
Rayley.”

Behind his closed
eyelids Trevor frowned, trying to recall if Geraldine had ever actually met
“dear Rayley.”

From the rustle of
paper, he concluded that Emma was putting aside her reading and turning her attention
to Geraldine and Tom.  “What do soirees have to do with Rayley?”

“Trevor was quite
right when he said a group of English tourists can hardly knock on the door of
the French police station and demand to know the particulars of an
investigation,” Geraldine said.  “So our route to the truth must follow the more
winding path of social intercourse.”

“I gather you have a
plan, Auntie,” Tom said.

“Indeed,” said
Geraldine.  “Let us summarize what we know at this point in time.  Rayley has
developed an infatuation with an English woman named Isabel Blout, who last
year left her elderly husband and bolted to Paris.  Due to her association with
a man named Armand Delacroix, whose name she sometimes assumes as her own, she
moves in a certain social strata.  New money, those who have come to their
wealth in recent memory and are eager to join the more established tiers of
society.  One of the ways to shine in Paris is to throw some of that lovely new
money into projects associated with the Exhibition, thus illustrating both your
wealth and your nationalism in one fell swoop.  The gossips of London have
suggested, behind the hand, that this Armand fellow earns his own living as
some sort of liaison between the investors, who are seeking a boost in their social
status, and the committee, which is seeking cash.  Most likely he was first
drawn to Isabel specifically because of her position in London society and may
not have realized how tenuous that position truly was.  He probably still
deludes himself that a mistress stolen from the bed or a higher ranking man
gives him status with his peers.  And, Heaven knows, Isabel’s beauty alone
could be a useful entry point into any number of social situations.  My guess
is that her primary function is to lend a patina to Armand’s own place in
society.”

“Bravo, Aunt Gerry,”
Tom said with enthusiasm.  “Everyone claims you’re daft, but when you put your
mind to it, your logic become most admirably linear.”    

“And, as
counterbalance, here is my contribution,” said Emma, “although I will freely concede
that I’m relying more on conjecture.  We must not forget that before Delacroix
and before Blout, Isabel was nothing more than a lower class girl whose family
worked the mills of Manchester. There is the distinct possibility that during her
time there she knew a young man named Charles Hammond.  He is also believed to
now be in Paris and also believed to be soliciting funds for the Exposition.  I
feel Isabel and Charles must be somehow connected to each other, although
Trevor is less convinced.”

It was an open
challenge, but Trevor elected not to respond.  He remained with his eyes
closed, mimicking the slow, deep breath of sleep.

“Quite intriguing,
is it not?” said Gerry. “The more rumors that collect around Isabel, the more
she sounds like a character in one of my bedside novels and not a real woman at
all.  But I’m sure all will be made clear when we meet her in the flesh.”     

“Do you truly intend
to chase down Isabel Blout by attending a round of parties held in honor of the
Exhibition?” Emma said, her voice slightly dubious.  “She’s has fled London and
turned her back on her life there.  What reason would she have to talk to you
at all, much less confide the sort of things that would lead us to Rayley?“

“Expatriates always
talk to their fellow countrymen,” Geraldine said with confidence.

Emma’s mind flew
back to the grim countenance of Janet Hammond.  The woman had used precisely
the same word. “Even if they left their former country under duress?”

Geraldine nodded.  “It’s
just…it’s just what we do, dear.  You’ll see when we’re in Paris.  Besides, I’m
rather good at lulling people into confidence. People think I’m a silly old
lady and they talk and talk and I just nod and listen.”

By God, that’s true,
thought Trevor.  Geraldine Bainbridge probably knows more about me than any
other living soul.

“And another point,”
Gerry continued.  “I won’t be attending the parties alone.  You’ll all be with
me.”

“As your
grand-nephew, Tom will certainly be an acceptable escort,” Emma said, “but as a
lady’s maid, your invitations hardly include me.”

“I didn’t bring you
to Paris to act as my lady’s maid,” Geraldine said calmly.  “You and Trevor
must attend these parties as well, so that we have four sets of eyes in the
hunt.  I doubt my reputation has preceded me across the channel but if anyone
knows anything at all about me, it’s probably that I have inherited funds,
inappropriate politics, and a gaggle of nephews.  So no one will question the
presence of Trevor and Tom.  And if we introduce you as the intended bride of
one of them, the doors shall swing open for us all.  What’s the French term for
a betrothed woman, darling?”

“Fiancee” Emma said
shortly.

“A lovely sounding
word,” Gerry said.  “We should adapt it into English.”

“I’m still not
convinced this is the proper plan,” Tom said. “Isabel Blout may be nothing more
than a pretty, shallow woman and Rayley’s infatuation with her might be purely
coincidental to his disappearance.  It seems to me the more likely route to
discovering who took him and why is to follow the investigation of the Graham
murder.  Whoever killed Graham is afraid Rayley is also on their trail, and that’s
what put him in danger.”

“Plausible as far as
it goes,” Emma said.  “But can’t you see how the two strands might be
connected?  Let’s consider the timeline. According to his letters, Rayley first
meets Isabel while in the company of the newspaper reporter Patrick Graham.  She
sees them talking and approaches them both at the same time, extending a rather
abrupt and unlikely offer of friendship.  Graham is invited to climb the tower as
part of a select group of the press chosen to witness first-hand what all this
invested money has wrought for Paris.  But was even this much accidental?  If
Isabel is as tightly tied to the network of investors as Gerry has theorized
her to be, then she likely knew that part of the business of that evening was
to invite the journalists to inspect the tower.  She maneuvers a way to be
standing beside the men when the invitation is issued and, quite by course, she
becomes included in the plan.”

“But to what end?”
Tom asked.  “Isabel, Rayley, and Graham all tour the tower together. They agree
it’s a marvel, they admire it, they grow dizzy from the altitude, and then they
come down.  As far as we know, that’s the end of the story.  Even if the
situation was contrived to lure Rayley and Graham along, I can’t fathom what
the benefit would be for either Isabel or the man who might be using her as
bait.”

“Neither can I,”
Emma admitted.  “At least not so far.  But the truth remains that within days
of this event Graham is murdered and Rayley disappears.  I refuse to accept
that as mere coincidence.”

“Now that much I’ll
admit,” Tom said. “Making the acquaintance of Isabel Blout seems to be a very
dangerous hobby for men and the reason is undoubtedly tied to her lover and his
pool of secret investors.   Graham was a reporter, Rayley a detective.  Evidently
they had each discovered something unsavory, or at least someone feared they might
be on the verge of it. “

“The answers to all
these questions lead back through Isabel,” Geraldine said decisively.  “Trouble
follows the girl and always has. Trevor, do stop pretending to sleep and tell
us what you think of all this.”

Trevor opened his
eyes and gave a rueful laugh.  “If you and Emma can discover the role the Blout
woman plays in the intrigue, it could prove useful indeed.  But I do not intend
to fully drop my identity as a Scotland Yard detective.  Rayley wrote that he
had earned the respect of at least one French officer so it might prove equally
useful to contact the man and see if he can shed any light on the Graham case.”

“Then you shall be a
detective by day and my honorary nephew by night,” Geraldine said.  She
attempted to uncross her ankles but the four of them were so packed in the
berth that any movement by one necessitated a shift by all the others. “The
three of us are merely amateurs so we’ll need someone at our teas and parties
who truly knows his craft.”   

Trevor slid a bit
closer to the window and shook his head.  “I could never pass as upper class.”

“Of course you can,”
Geraldine said.  “Society is nothing more than a very long and rather boring theatrical,
darling, and to succeed you must simply speak the right lines and look the
part.  We shall shop for Emma’s costume when we disembark in France and for men
it’s even easier.  One reasonably well-cut suit will do the trick.”

“If Trevor and I are
to pass as aristocrats, then ‘costume’ is quite the right word,” Emma said,
with a light laugh.  “I suppose Shakespeare said it best.  ‘All the world’s a
stage, the men and women merely players.’  But he wasn’t just speaking of class
when he wrote those words.  He was speaking of all the masks we wear - age,
nationality, religion, race, gender.”

“Strange to ponder,”
Tom said, extracting a cigarette from a case, “that gender is but a role when
it seems to be the core of everything we do in life.  But then male actors
played the female roles in Shakespeare’s time, did they not?  And then of
course there are all those comedies where brothers pretended to be their
sisters and girls were costumed as boys.  A male actor dressed as a woman who
is pretending to be a man.  It quite boggles the mind.”