London (11 page)

“Okay, I'm following you.”

“Which means that at this moment Gavin's attacker could be closing in on the person who gave Gavin the photo.” I stopped and turned to face Sebastian. “So wouldn't you be frightened too?”

Johnny Vane's childhood home was enormous and creepy. Furthermore, it looked neglected. Standing on the corner of Dawson Place, it was a large, white stuccoed building that dominated the end of the street. Any movie producer hunting for the perfect setting for a horror film would have no need to look further. I got the chills just looking at it.

A short flight of stone steps led to a grand portico entrance. The house's imposing facade was punctuated with large windows, all dark and inscrutable from where we stood. Four large stone eagles—one at each corner of the flat roof—added a touch of spooky drama. An untamed collection of evergreen shrubs completed the forlorn image.

“The house looks ready for Halloween,” Sebastian said. “If a witch opened the door, I wouldn't be surprised.” At that exact moment, a black cat walked past the place. Halley strained at her leash to chase after it.

“True,” I said as I imagined growing up in such a house.

“So what's next?” Sebastian asked.

“Follow me,” I said as I crossed the road, then let Halley off her leash. I pulled a bright-blue ball out of my pocket and threw it along the pavement for her to chase.

“Are you about to do what I think you are?” Sebastian asked, eyebrows raised, smile playing at the corners of his lips.

I nodded. “Uh-huh,” I said as I took the ball from Halley's mouth and then drew my arm back. With all my might, I threw the ball into the front yard of the house. Halley ran toward the house and slid to a stop as her nose pressed up against the low wall that encircled it. She started barking and didn't stop until Sebastian and I had reached her.

I attached Halley's leash to her collar, then walked to the front gate and opened it. Once inside, Sebastian and I headed up a short stone-flagged path that led to the flight of steps.

“Why do I feel as if we're being watched?” Sebastian asked as we stood on the top step under the portico.

“Because maybe we are,” I whispered. A bay window protruded on each side of the front door. The windows were covered with thin muslin curtains that had probably been white originally, but were now yellow with age. Even so, they blocked the view through the windows effectively.

The door knocker was enormous and jutted out aggressively. Like the statues on the roof, it also took the form of an eagle. I grabbed the large bronze circle that it grasped firmly in its sharp beak and swung it. The knocker creaked before hitting the door with a loud thud. I banged a few more times, then stood and listened. But the house remained silent. No sound, no light ruffled its dark interior.

Then just as we turned to leave, I could have sworn I saw a curtain twitch in the left bay window. Sebastian brushed my arm to show he'd noticed the movement too. I pressed my nose up against the window, but I couldn't see anything through the muslin fabric. Who was in there?

I motioned to Sebastian and we walked back down the steps—but I wasn't going to leave without having a look around. “I can always say that we tried to ask permission, but no one was home,” I said as we turned right at the bottom of the stairs and walked to the side of the house. But the windows along that wall were too high up for us to look through, so after finding Halley's ball, we walked around to the other side, where we could see a little more.

The first two windows we came to were positioned close to each other and were much taller than the others I'd seen so far. Because the second one was placed higher along the wall than the first, I thought they might light a staircase—not that we'd find out. Even if they'd been low enough, we wouldn't have been able to see through the stained glass.

We continued farther along the side of the house to the next set of windows. From there, through the large gap between the drawn curtains, we could see into a library. I turned on the flashlight on my phone, then swept its beam of light over the room.

“Talk about a creepy time warp,” Sebastian said.

“I know, right?” The room's faded decor was old-fashioned, and it looked as if it hadn't been lived in for decades. Otherwise everything appeared relatively tidy. Nothing looked out of place, and even the cushions were plumped. “It's weird. It's as if someone left the room about forty years ago and everything has stayed exactly the same since then.”

“Yeah, like the room is just waiting for them to walk back in,” Sebastian said as we stepped away from the window and moved back toward the front of the house.

“We have to find out who owns the house now,” I said as we walked out through the front gate and turned right. “There's something very odd about this place.”

“I agree. I can start tracking down the details online…”

“I don't think you'll have to,” I said. As we came to the first street corner, I pointed to the building just opposite us: the Notting Hill Gate Library.

“What? There? Since when do local libraries keep documents of land ownership?” he said as we crossed the street and walked up the short flight of stairs that led into the large, white house that was now the library.

I laughed. “Since never. But our librarian is very knowledgeable on local lore.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that she—Mrs. Sobecki—might be able to answer some of our questions and help us trace the Vane handyman or cleaner.” I tied Halley up just outside the door, and Sebastian and I went in.

“Hello, Axelle,” Mrs. Sobecki said when she saw me walking up to the front desk. I said hello back and introduced her to Sebastian. This provoked a widening of her large, dark eyes and a quick, knowing smile. She was almost as corny as my mom.

But before she could say anything to embarrass me I asked her if she knew of a local man named Juan Rivera.

“Ah!” she said with a broad, warm smile. “So we're working on a new case, are we? Is this another investigation for your school paper?”

“Sort of,” I answered. Sebastian gave me a nudge from behind, and I knew he was trying not to laugh. Mrs. Sobecki had no clue that I'd taken my detective work up a notch (okay, maybe a few notches) since I'd started writing for the
Notting Hill News
. And frankly, she was such a gossip that I planned to leave her in the dark.

“Hmm…Rivera,” she said as she tapped her fingers on the counter. “Well, I do have a Mr. Rivera who comes in here very regularly. But I doubt he's the person you're looking for.”

“Why?”

“Because he's old—very old.”

“Then he's probably just the person we're looking for. We need information on the history of our neighborhood, which is why he was suggested to us.”

Mrs. Sobecki looked at her watch. “Well,” she said as she peered at us over her glasses, “in that case, Axelle, it seems you're in luck. Mr. Rivera should be here any moment. He comes every day at about one o'clock. I'll introduce you as soon as he's—” Mrs. Sobecki didn't finish her sentence because at that moment Mr. Rivera walked in.

She introduced us, and a few minutes later Sebastian, Mr. Rivera, and I were sitting together in the large bay window overlooking the street. Halley, meanwhile, was still tied up just outside the door, where I knew Mrs. Sobecki would keep an eye on her. “And let me know if he helps you with your case, Axelle,” Mrs. Sobecki said with a quick wink before getting back to her work.

If anyone looked as if he knew about the past it was Mr. Rivera. He was wrinkled and his back was bent, but he was friendly and quick to smile. Fortunately, he was more than happy to answer a few questions about “the old days” in the neighborhood, as he put it.

It turned out that eighty-year-old Mr. Rivera was an avid reader, which is why he was often in the library and knew Mrs. Sobecki so well. In fact, I realized as I looked at him that I'd seen Mr. Rivera in here many times before. More significantly for my immediate needs, however, was the fact that he had lived and worked within a two-block radius of this library ever since he'd arrived here from Spain as a child. He knew the history of the neighborhood better than anyone.

“So, Axelle, what can I help you with?”

I took my freshly printed copy of the old photo out of my backpack and showed it to him.

“Ooh,” he said. “That's old. Where did you find it?”

“I'm writing an article on Johnny Vane for my school magazine, and I found the picture through a photographer. I believe it's of Johnny Vane and his brother, Julian…”

Mr. Rivera confirmed that it was indeed the Vane twins.

“I knew the family well, you know,” he continued. “I worked as their handyman for many years—well, until they left anyway. Those two were lively little boys—Johnny especially.” He stopped to peer closely at the photo. “I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I think this one's Johnny,” he said as he pointed to the figure that stood behind, engulfing his brother in a big bear hug. “The boys were identical twins, you know. It was nearly impossible to tell them apart. I didn't always manage.

“I can see them as if it was yesterday.” He smiled. “They loved to go mudlarking. Absolutely loved it. As soon as the sun came out, off they'd go. With their nanny, of course. But that all ended when Julian died.”

“What is mudlarking?” I asked.

Mr. Rivera handed me back the photo and smiled again. “That's something you kids don't do anymore. It used to be very popular. I think you'd call it treasure hunting or beachcombing now. You know that the Thames is a tidal river?”

I nodded.

“Well, when the tides go out every day they leave beaches uncovered.”

“Beaches?” said Sebastian.

Mr. Rivera nodded. “Yes, beaches. Now I'm not talking fine white sand and palm trees, but nonetheless, when the tide's out, the Thames does have real beaches—rough, pebble beaches. A long time ago—and I'm talking one hundred to two hundred years ago—poor children would comb the beaches at low tide searching for trinkets and anything of value. That's what they called ‘mudlarking.' Lots of stuff fell or was thrown into the Thames, you know—some of it valuable, or at least valuable enough to be worth the search. The kids would sell whatever they found and earn some money that way.”

“But the Vanes were quite a wealthy family, weren't they? Why would the boys go mudlarking?”

“They just did it for fun. A lot of kids did back then. Down by the Tower of London and along Grosvenor Road, for instance, you'll find some small beaches when the tide is out. If you're lucky, you might pick up an old Victorian clay pipe. I hear lots of them still wash up. Just like the one Sherlock Holmes used to smoke!”

“If I wanted to go mudlarking now, today, where would I go?”

He rubbed his chin. “I used to have a friend—a black-cab driver—who went on his day off. He'd even take a metal detector with him. He did it out of the Westminster Boating Base. I think you might need a license nowadays, but I'm not sure. The Port of London Authority should be able to tell you that. But, Axelle, if you do go out, be careful. The tides fall and rise by about twenty feet, twice a day. The water comes in very quickly, and the currents of the river can be very, very powerful.”

“Is that what killed Julian?” I asked.

Mr. Rivera looked down at his hands. “Yes, poor boy. He was caught out when the currents were coming in and didn't make it to the steps in time. Small as he was, the strong currents pulled him under. Johnny tried to help him, but there's no beating the river if it wants to take you. By the time the nanny reached the boys, Julian was dead.” Mr. Rivera went silent for a moment, then said, “But that won't happen to you if you're careful.

“Anyway, I'm not surprised that Johnny's gone on to be such a success in fashion,” Mr. Rivera went on. “He was always drawing and always particular about what he wore—even at that tender age. His brother was more introverted, quieter. He liked drawing too, mind you. But nice boys, both of them, always playing in the garden. I was their gardener too, you know. Their mother was always away. She traveled nonstop after her husband died. Grand she was. Beautiful too. So sad the way it all ended.”

“And Georgie?”

“Yes, poor girl,” said Mr. Rivera. “Her father died before she was born, and she was still very young when she lost her brother and mother. And after the deaths they—Johnny, Georgie, and their nanny—kept very much to themselves. They had an aunt, their guardian, who lived with them. She'd moved into the Dawson Place mansion after Clarissa's husband died. What was she called…?” He rubbed his chin for a moment before it came to him: “Yes, Carolyne. Carolyne Ryder.”

She's Caro Moretti now
, I thought.

I listened with particular interest as Mr. Rivera told us about her. “Carolyne was Clarissa's sister, although you wouldn't know it from looking at them. Carolyne was always in Clarissa's shadow. After the accidents, Carolyne and the kids—and the nanny too—became very secretive and you hardly saw them anymore. Not long after Clarissa died, they moved away. Carolyne went to New York City, I think, and I know Johnny and Georgie were sent to expensive schools, and their nanny did everything for them. But I never saw them after that—not while they were young. I've heard Georgie works for her brother now.”

“I read that Clarissa died accidentally in the house,” I said. “But I don't know how…”

Mr. Rivera looked at me and slowly nodded his head. “She had a terrible fall.”

“Where?”

“The house has a large staircase in the hallway. She fell all the way down from midway up. The stone floor at the bottom broke her fall.”

“Do you know how it happened?”

Mr. Rivera shrugged. “I wasn't inside the house at the time, but everyone said she'd slipped or tripped or something. It's true that the stairs in that house are terribly slippery. I always said you could ice skate on them if they were flat!”