London (21 page)

She waved when she saw me and put her phone away.

I'd made a lot of progress with the case, but until I had something more definite, I thought it better to hold my cards close to my chest. After all, I didn't have any concrete answers, and I certainly didn't want to mislead Tallulah at this stage.

At the same time, I knew that I was the only person she could talk to about what she thought had really happened to her brother. I couldn't deny
her
the opportunity to talk, so I asked her if she wanted to go somewhere quiet. But she shook her head. “I don't have the time, but where are you heading now?”

“To the Tube. Bond Street. But I'll need to use a side entrance to get out of here…” I said as I looked around for the assistant Belle had sent to help Ellie and me earlier.

“Ah!” Tallulah smiled. “I think I know why. Then why don't we walk to the Tube together? I can cover for you.”

I agreed, and after a moment I found the assistant who'd shown me in. Together the three of us slipped quietly out the side entrance, leaving the chaos of the show behind us. We stepped from the La Lune store into the sunny London day and the civilized elegance of Mount Street. If the paparazzi were still around, they'd be lurking outside the main door.

“I don't have anything more to tell you, Axelle. I just wanted to quickly say that Gavin is recovering well and the doctors think they'll definitely be able to bring him out of his coma on Friday. I've continued to look through his things again, his phone, any notes I've been able to find—he's going to hate me when he comes to!—in case we missed something, but there's absolutely nothing as far as I can see.”

“Have you thought any more about the name your brother gave the file of photos?”

“‘Close-up,' wasn't it?” Tallulah asked.

“Yes,” I said hopefully. “Can you think of anything that it might refer to? Anything at all?”

Tallulah shrugged her shoulders but kept moving at the brisk pace she'd set. “I can't, Axelle, no…”

“I've looked through the images again and again, but there is no close-up of anything anywhere on the file—at least nothing that I can see.”

Tallulah stopped abruptly and smiled. “Are you sure?”

I looked at her. “Yes, I am. Why?”

“Well, you remember I said the names on his files were sometimes coded?”

I nodded.

“I just wonder whether by ‘Close-up' he means there is literally something that can only be seen if you look close up.”

“What? Like with a magnifying glass?”

Tallulah shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe…the more I think about it, the more I think it might just be worth a look.”

“But which one? Or is it something about all of them? There are so many images on the file.”

Tallulah laughed. “That's exactly the sort of thing Gavin loves! Lots of images and only he knows which one, or ones, you should really be looking at!”

She hailed a black cab, and after I'd waved her off, I tugged on Halley's leash and headed into the Tube.

Sebastian was waiting for me on the platform in Bond Street station, as planned. He was dressed in his usual outfit of leather jacket, jeans, and boots. His hair was tousled, and he smelled fresh and warm. “I'm getting the hang of your city,” he said. “I'm finding my way around more easily every day, and I like it here more and more,” he continued. “I never knew London was such fun.”

“That's because you're from Paris,” I teased. “Parisians think only Paris is fun.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes at me. “Seriously though, I love all the different neighborhoods, and the Englishness of it all is…well, comforting, somehow.”

He bent down to pet Halley, then took my hand (I didn't object) as a train pulled in. As the doors opened, he led me into the nearest car and we found a couple of open seats. I smiled, happy that my modeling work was finished for the day.
Being with Sebastian is so easy
, I thought, as I felt my hand in his. Half the time we didn't even need to explain things to each other—we just knew. We were on the same wavelength about so many things, and I liked that we were able to just hang out together for ages, talking about all sorts of stuff—or not. We didn't need to plan anything special to have a good time. Ellie was right. We were good in each other's company.

So why did he have to live so far away?

“A penny for your thoughts, Holmes?”

I didn't say anything.

“Are you thinking about the fact that I don't sing? And does that bother you?”

He was clearly talking about Josh. “That's not what I'm thinking about, and no it doesn't bother me. Like I told you this morning, I think it's better that you don't,” I answered.

“Good.” He nodded. “I'll take that as a compliment.” Then he pulled some folded slips of paper out of his inside jacket pocket. “Here,” he said.

They were copies of two articles he'd found about Caro's broken engagement, and both corroborated Jodi's account. Caro's fiancé had left her for Clarissa—and then Clarissa had left her sister's ex-fiancé after only a few months. Bad blood had developed between the sisters.

“Pretty dramatic, isn't it?” Sebastian asked.

I nodded. “And not exactly the picture of sisterly love either…”

An email suddenly came through on my phone. It was Jazz, double-checking that I had all of my details for tomorrow's show for Jorge Cruz.
You're going to have a blast, you lucky girl!
she wrote…
The gardens at Hampton Court Palace are in full bloom and the weather is supposed to be great tomorrow so I doubt they'll need the tent after all. Don't forget to Instagram—you've been forgetful the last few days!

Oh and Charlotte is going, so you'll see her there. Call me if you need anything, anything at all, and anyway, we'll talk tomorrow morning. Marc Jacobs's Saturday show should confirm soon, by the way. See ya!

I finished reading the email and slipped my phone back into my shoulder bag.

Two minutes later we were walking out of Notting Hill Gate Tube station.

“I'd like to look at the copies of the news reports of Clarissa Vane's death again. And I'd like to ask Mr. Rivera a few more questions about the day Clarissa died.”

Sebastian and I had stopped at a deli I liked on the way to the library to meet Mr. Rivera. We sat at an outside table, and after ordering a gelato and getting Halley a drink of water, I pulled out the photo and note I'd received that morning.

“So it's probably been sent by the same person who sent Gavin the other photo?” Sebastian said.

“That's what I think, yes. The style is so similar.”

“I agree,” he said as he held a copy of Gavin's old photo in one hand and the one I'd received that morning in the other. “But why would they send you a picture of the hall at the Dawson Place mansion?”

“I can only guess that it's because they're trying to tell me something about Clarissa's death. That's also what the note they sent suggests. That's why I wanted to look at the newspaper clippings again. Jodi Lipton's account of Clarissa's death didn't quite tally with what I could remember of the newspaper reports we'd read.”

Sebastian set the photos on the table and pulled his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. He opened the flap of its leather-bound cover and took out the neatly folded copies of the newspaper reports. We unfolded them, laid them out, and carefully reread every one.

They all reported the same basic information: that Clarissa Vane fell accidentally in her home, from the landing on the second floor. She had landed on the stone floor of the entrance hall. Death was instant.

“But they don't say why or how she fell exactly,” Sebastian said.

I nodded. “Jodi said that the staircase was extremely slippery. She said she'd fallen on it herself. She was absolutely convinced that Clarissa had simply slipped and fallen to her death.”

“As opposed to?”

“This,” I said, as I pushed one of the articles toward Sebastian and pointed to the relevant sentence.

He read it out loud. “
…she'd recently been in and out of various rehabilitation centers… Could this have contributed?
But why does this strike you as odd? From what we know, she
did
seem to do more partying than parenting.”

“True, but according to Jodi, Clarissa was totally off the drink and drugs—and had been for about three months leading up to her death. In fact, Jodi was angry that the papers had hinted otherwise. And I trust her firsthand account more than I do anything in the papers…” I trailed off as I thought about what I'd just said. I believed it even more after seeing a totally fake photo of myself in the papers that morning!

I looked at Sebastian. He was suddenly very quiet, and I could see a small frown forming on his forehead. He avoided looking at me; something was clearly irritating him. I had no doubt he was thinking about this morning's photo too.

I coughed loudly and said, “The other thing that Jodi remembered about her last meeting with Clarissa was that although Clarissa was in good form, there was something that she was ‘scared' of.”

“According to…?”

“According to Clarissa.”

“And Jodi never asked Clarissa what she was scared of?”

I shook my head. “They were interrupted. And then Clarissa promised to call Jodi to tell her more, but she never did because she died.”

“And Jodi has no idea what it could have been about?”

“None. She only says that Clarissa seemed nervous when she started to talk about it.”

“That doesn't tell us much though, does it?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Not yet anyway…but she must have had a reason for being scared.”

I continued to look through the clippings and learned that Johnny and Georgie had been home at the time of their mother's death. Jane had also been present.

“But there's no mention of Caro being in the house at the time,” I said.

“Although,” said Sebastian as he pushed one of the clippings toward me, “it says here that she showed up shortly after Clarissa died, which they say was about two thirty p.m. But considering the bad blood between them…”

I nodded. “We should try to find out if Caro really was absent from the house at the times reported. Also, I wonder if anyone else was there. A maid or someone.” I looked at the time. “Let's go, Watson. It's time to cast our net wider—and maybe Mr. Rivera can help.”

Time Will Tell

A few minutes later I tied Halley up by the main door of the library, and Sebastian and I walked inside. Mr. Rivera must have said something to Mrs. Sobecki because she was waiting for us. “He's in his favorite armchair,” she said. “And he's expecting you. Go on. I'll keep an eye on Halley for you.”

“Ah, Axelle! And Sebastian!” Mr. Rivera said when he saw us. As we shook hands he peered closely at me and said, “You're looking very smart this afternoon, Axelle.”

“I've come directly from doing a fashion show. That's why,” I answered.

“What? A fashion show? But what about your hair? What have they done to it? It's so, so…”

It suddenly dawned on me that Mr. Rivera had seen my hair untamed yesterday. No wonder he was having difficulty describing my fashionably styled locks today! “So straight?” I offered.

“Yes, exactly. It looks very beautiful, but I don't know that it really looks like you.”

I laughed. Coming from anyone else, Mr. Rivera's comment might not have sounded like a compliment, but I understood what he meant. “Don't worry, Mr. Rivera. It's not permanent. One wash and it'll be back to its usual self,” I said as I started to comb through my hair with my fingers.

“So how can I help you today, Axelle?” Mr. Rivera asked. “And how long is this school article going to be? It must be pretty extensive by now.”

As we sat down, Sebastian discreetly pulled his chair back a little from Mr. Rivera and myself. We'd decided he'd sit and listen. We didn't want to raise Mr. Rivera's suspicions with both of us questioning him. After all, we'd told him I was working on a school article, although it sounded as if he was no longer so convinced of that.

And with the questions I had to ask him today, I doubted Mr. Rivera would continue to buy my “school article” excuse at all. So maybe it was time to tell him the truth (sort of), and with a bit of luck, hopefully he'd continue to help.

“Um…actually, Mr. Rivera,” I said, “I've finished the article for my school paper, but while researching it I…I seem to have come across some discrepancies in the reports concerning Clarissa's death.”

Mr. Rivera nodded vigorously. “I'm not surprised—not that I ever looked into anything myself. But there was something fishy about Clarissa's death, if you ask me.”

“In what way?”

Mr. Rivera shrugged. “Nothing I can put my finger on. It was just that Clarissa was so full of life at the end, despite the tragedies she'd so recently endured, and I don't know…something about the whole thing seemed odd, you know?”

“I think I do, Mr. Rivera…and that's why I'd like to look a bit more into what really happened at Dawson Place. So if you're willing to answer more questions, I'd appreciate your help.”

“Of course, Axelle. Go ahead, ask away.”

“You said that the stairs at the Vane house are very slippery and that Clarissa may have slipped or tripped when she fell. Can you remember anything more precisely than that about her fall? Or even just about the day in general—at the house, I mean.”

Mr. Rivera started rubbing his chin. After a few moments he said, “No, not about her fall. Like I said, I wasn't actually in the house when it happened. I was in the garden. And if I had heard something specific, I would have remembered. It was so shocking, you know. It's hard to forget anything about a day like that—and I think any of the neighbors from that time would say the same.

“When it happened, for instance, it was about two thirty in the afternoon and I was working in the front yard, pruning the bushes. Otherwise it was a lovely, sunny day…and then came the terrible shock of Clarissa falling—and just a few months after Julian had drowned. All I know is that the staircase was—and still is—a very slippery one. I don't recall that anyone working in the house was surprised. It certainly wasn't the first time someone had tripped and fallen, although Clarissa was the only one who died.”

“And what about Clarissa's general state of health at the time? The papers seemed to think that she'd been under the influence of something—medication for addiction or alcohol or something. They insinuate that that may have had something to do with her fall.”

Mr. Rivera slowly nodded. “It's true that Clarissa had her vices—or addictions as they're called now. But after Julian died, she changed. Personally, I think that she was scared of losing Johnny too. He was her favorite, you see, and I always had the impression that she felt she had to clean up her act for his sake—and Georgie's, of course. So shortly after Julian died she went into rehab to control her addiction to whatever it was she was drinking or taking. She was really blooming again when she came out. Then, of course, she died.”

So far everything Mr. Rivera was saying tallied with what Jodi had said that morning.

“I've heard that Clarissa was scared about something just before she died. Do you have you any idea what could have been frightening her?”

“Scared?”

I nodded.

Mr. Rivera frowned. “If something was frightening her, then she hid it well because she looked radiant to me.”

“And she had no worries that you knew of? Money trouble, perhaps, or something to do with her family? I've heard there was some rivalry between Clarissa and her sister, Carolyne Ryder.”

“There was some quarreling between the sisters about a gentleman, I believe, but I never paid attention to the gossip. Otherwise, no, nothing comes to mind. Nothing I noticed anyway. And between Jane Wimple and Mrs. Underwood, the housekeeper, the Vane household and family was well looked after.”

“Mr. Rivera, you said that on the afternoon Clarissa died you were pruning bushes in her front yard. Can you remember anything else about that day? Can you remember seeing who went in and out of the house, for instance? According to the reports written at the time, Johnny, Jane Wimple, and Georgie were present. But surely there were more people around. Like the housekeeper, or what about Carolyne?”

“You're right. Mrs. Underwood, Mary was her name, was around, but she was out shopping at the time of the accident, which is why she wasn't mentioned in the papers. She was a cold woman. I never liked her much, although she ran the household well. I'll give her that.”

“You told me yesterday that she died about ten years ago.”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“It would help me a lot if I could talk to anyone else who worked in the house at that time, or even with anyone around here who knew Mrs. Underwood well. Can you think of anyone I could speak to?”

“Hmm…a couple of maids came and went over the years, but I'm not sure where they are now. I'll have to ask around. But I can do that for you, Axelle, if you'd like. Put a few lines in the water and see if any fish bite.”

“Thank you, that would really be helpful… And I wonder if you remember seeing anyone else go in or out of the house that afternoon.”

“Yes. You mentioned Carolyne, Clarissa's sister. I saw her go in and out of the house. She was there too that afternoon, yes.”

“But I haven't come across her name in any of the reports…”

“That's because she left the house shortly before all the mayhem started. I remember thinking how lucky she was that she'd missed her sister's death. I don't know if anyone else saw her go and come back, because she used the side door and she was in a hurry, as if she'd forgotten something somewhere. Then again, busy young thing that she was, she was always rushing in and out of the house. It didn't exactly draw my attention—except for the fact that she used the side door.”

“Hmm… And Georgie? Where was she when her mother fell?”

“Asleep, having her afternoon nap, I believe.”

“Where?”

“In her bedroom on the second floor. That's where all of the bedrooms were—and still are, I suppose.”

“And what about Johnny and the nanny?”

“They were upstairs on the top floor, in the playroom. They came down when they heard Clarissa scream. So I was told.”

“And what about Clarissa herself? Where was she before she fell?”

“Oh, she was having her ‘nap.' After she'd gone to that clinic, shortly after Julian died, her doctors ordered her to rest after lunch for a couple of hours—and it was something she took seriously. At least she went to her bedroom after lunch every day until about three or so. She relaxed, wrote her letters, that sort of thing. But she stayed in her room.”

“And when did Mrs. Underwood return from her errands?”

“Just after the police arrived.” Mr. Rivera was quiet for a moment before continuing. “She was a cold one, all right. Believe it or not, she didn't melt for even a second when Clarissa died. She just stood by the police like stone and said that she wasn't surprised. I know because we were all standing around close to the hall, watching and listening. Anyway, Mary—Mrs. Underwood—stopped working for the family afterward. Just like that.” Mr. Rivera snapped his fingers in the air for emphasis. “From one day to the next she was gone.”

“Who replaced her?”

“Some other housekeeper. One Jane Wimple found. Very unfriendly—to me anyway.”

“And what happened to her?”

“When the family moved away, she found work elsewhere. She died too. Last year.”

“Who looks after the house now?”

“A young woman named Agnieszka Salvador. She's the daughter-in-law of a friend of mine. She goes in and checks on it. The house got something of a reputation, you know, after those two deaths. Doesn't matter that Julian died in the Thames. People in the neighborhood started saying that the house was haunted, that going into it would bring bad luck, all that sort of nonsense.

“After the family—or what was left of it—moved away, none of the people hired to look after the house stayed for long except me. For a number of years I kept checking on the garden for them and doing basic maintenance around the house. But since I retired, Agnieszka is the first one who's stayed. It's been a year now.”

“So she's not afraid?”

Mr. Rivera shook his head and smiled. “No way. She's a tough cookie, Agnieszka is. I've talked to her a lot about the house and the family's history and so on. It all happened so long ago but she actually finds it kind of interesting. Anyway, she could show you around if you like. It might help with your investigation, give you a feel for the family's past. Although you wouldn't be able to take any photos, of course—or tell people you'd been in the house. Not that anyone would notice. Apart from Georgie, no one from the family has been there for months.”

Mr. Rivera looked at his watch. “Agnieszka normally checks on the house about now. She goes by every day after work—she has a day job—to ensure everything is in order. These grand empty houses are big targets for squatters, you know! Anyway, I could take you to meet her if you like.”

I could see Sebastian giving me the thumbs-up from where he stood—and I had to agree. What a stroke of luck to be offered a chance to look at the house! It was exactly the opportunity I'd been hoping for—and it happened without having to invent some elaborate ruse.

“Yes, please, Mr. Rivera,” I said. “I would very much like to see the house. But do you think we could both go?” I asked, looking at Sebastian.

“I don't see why not. Come on, let's go.”

We waved good-bye to Mrs. Sobecki as we walked past the reception desk, and Mr. Rivera turned to me and said, “Mrs. Sobecki told me you like to solve mysteries, Axelle. Answering your questions just now, I'd say you're a natural crime buster. You might want to bear that in mind when it comes to choosing what to study.”

“You know, Mr. Rivera, you have a point—and it's one I'll definitely keep in mind. Thank you!” As we collected Halley and left the library, I could see Sebastian trying hard not to burst out laughing.

• • •

The key turned in the lock with one smooth, reassuringly loud click. Agnieszka pushed the heavy door open, and Sebastian and I followed her in. Mr. Rivera had headed home after introducing us outside, so it was just the three of us, plus Halley. I let Halley off her leash (Agnieszka said it wouldn't be a problem) and looked around. The hall was large, its ceiling high. Dust danced in the shafts of colored light that shone through the vast stained-glass windows.

The other day, as I had tried peering in from outside, I'd seen how the sun reflected against the brightly colored facets of the stained-glass windows, but the effect was entirely different on the inside. Dots of bright color—reds, blues, greens, yellows, and oranges—leaped around the space, their bright vivacity at odds with the faded glamour of the surroundings.

“Nice, right?” Agnieszka asked between the loud snaps she made with her chewing gum.

“It's more than nice,” I said, forgetting the tragedy that had happened on the staircase for a moment. I placed my hand on the large crystal orb that decorated the newel post at the bottom of the balustrade. From this vantage point I looked up toward the ceiling and caught my breath. I heard Sebastian do the same as he came up next to me.

The ceiling above the stairs was in fact a glass cupola, so although the hall itself wasn't particularly bright because of the stained-glass windows, the stairwell was. And the higher you looked, the more light flooded the stairwell shaft. It was like a stairway to heaven—or so I thought in my present fanciful mood.

What caught my eye, however, was a large portrait of Clarissa Vane that dominated the lower part of the stairwell and hall. It hung over the staircase on a semi-landing, from where the stairs turned left and continued to the second-floor landing just above. Even in the gloomy light her incandescent beauty shone. The symmetry of her classical features gave the vast canvas a kind of serenity. A flowing turquoise gown billowed around her tall, slim frame, while on her head sat a large, black, softly shaped hat with a wide brim. The effect was unusual, bohemian, and striking.