The Dark Enquiry (24 page)

“Any lending library could provide her with the information, and no one would notice the nondescript French-woman whiling away her time, nor would they connect her with Madame. A perfect system,” I remarked.

“Perhaps too perfect,” he said. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a newspaper clipping, which he passed to me. “I slipped away this evening to meet with Monk. He brought that.”

I pursed my lips at the notion that he had gone to meet Monk without me, but even as my eyes dropped to the print, the words died stillborn on my tongue. The clipping was from the
Times
and reported the facts in stark detail. I thrust it back at him.

“Oh, God,” I murmured. “I do not want to read it.”

But I did. Brisbane passed it back wordlessly and I forced myself to read the facts dispassionately. And the facts were these—that a woman had been killed at Victoria Station by falling onto the tracks just as a train was pulling in. No one saw her fall. No one knew if she had simply lost her balance or thrown herself onto the tracks. She had been killed instantly, and papers on her person confirmed her identity as Agathe LeBrun, a practising medium currently holding sessions at the Spirit Club.

Agathe was dead
. No matter how many times I repeated the words, I could not make sense of them. I had liked her far too well for the murderer of her own sister to have expected this.

“Why was she killed?”

“Because she knew something she oughtn’t,” Brisbane supplied.

Together, we talked the matter through, examining it closely from every angle. “She was privy to her sister’s affairs,” I recollected. “She knew her secrets.”

“And they were partners in their profession,” Brisbane put in. “Madame could not have perpetrated her frauds without assistance.”

“So that makes Agathe a valuable source of information, both about Madame and her clients,” I continued. “She knew who came to see Madame and why. She discovered information that could be used against them.” I hesitated, then lifted my eyes to Brisbane. “Do you think she knew about Bellmont?”

He paid me the compliment of honesty. “I think it possible.”

“And do you think she was the blackmailer?”

“To what purpose? I could understand it if she took the money, but Bellmont’s blackmailer did not. If the five thousand had been taken, I would have sworn to you that not only was Agathe culpable of blackmail, but that she was killed by one of her victims. But without the money, there is no motive.”

I had felt the noose tightening about my brother’s throat, and I gave a little lurch of relief. “So, all we can say with certainty is that Agathe knew too much. Knowledge is power. Agathe must have overplayed her hand and made the murderer nervous.”

Brisbane stroked his jaw. It was heavily shadowed and I knew he missed his evening ablutions. It made him look even more the part of a Gypsy, and I found it rather dangerously attractive.

“It is no good,” he told me. “We do not know if the murderer and blackmailer are one and the same. Until we determine that, we are wandering in the dark.”

I turned that over in my mind. “Madame’s murderer might have killed for one purpose—to remove Madame. That is all. Once his object was achieved, he might have disappeared. The information left behind, the letters, Agathe’s observations, those may be the root of the blackmailer’s crime. But in that case, the blackmailer must be Agathe or a close associate. Or—” I sat forward, excitement rising. “Or, Agathe might have been blackmailing the murderer.”

“Because she saw something she ought not and did not tell the police.”

“Precisely! I was wrong. Agathe did not kill Madame, but she knew something about the person who did. She did not tell the police because she hoped to use the information to her advantage.”

“Exposing one’s knowledge to a murderer is a dangerous game,” Brisbane reflected.

“But there was something rather clever about Agathe,” I reminded him. “Doubtless she thought she could achieve her aim.”

“Which was?”

“Money, of course. Isn’t that always the aim of blackmail?” But of course, it was not. Hadn’t Bellmont’s blackmailer left the money untouched in his quest to course for bigger game? Too late, I saw the flaw in my hypothesis. “Oh. There would have to be two blackmailers! Agathe and Bellmont’s, for—if as you say—money was her aim, she would not have left the five thousand uncollected.”

“And we already decided that Bellmont’s blackmailer had no accomplice, else he would have seen to it the money was retrieved whilst the fire was set,” Brisbane put in.

“Damnation,” I muttered. I had quite liked that theory. We fell silent again, and I nibbled at my lip as I thought. “Perhaps they were partners who did not trust one another,” I said slowly.

Brisbane flicked me a glance and retrieved his cigar case. He extracted another of his thin Spanish cigars and lit it, exhaling a narrow stream of fragrant, seductive smoke. “Go on.”

“Imagine this. Agathe and Madame embark upon their professional partnership which requires Agathe to acquire knowledge, dangerous knowledge. Together they use this knowledge to pry money out of clients, either with promises of greater contact with the other side of the spirit world or with direct threats to expose their findings. One of the clients does not take kindly to this and manages to arrange for a delivery of aconite root to the kitchen of the Spirit Club.” I paused and frowned. “You know, that in itself is quite telling, is it not? To poison all of the horseradish of the club was a reckless act. Either the murderer was quite certain only Madame would eat it, or he did not care how many died so long as Madame was dead.”

“It would likely have suited his purposes if more than Madame died,” Brisbane advised. “If half a dozen people were dead, it would make the intended victim almost impossible to identify with certainty.”

“Oh, that is clever! And monstrous,” I added. “Where was I?”

“Horseradish,” he supplied, puffing out another stream of smoke.

“Yes, Madame eats it and dies. Agathe is left with a great deal of information that could be very valuable. But she is unaccustomed to working alone. She requires a partner. She confides then, in a friend, or perhaps even a lover. And she removes documents from Madame’s possession that will aid her in her plans. She gives them to her new partner for safekeeping, but there is later a falling out. They quarrel, over how to proceed or money or any one of a hundred reasons, and they each choose a separate path. Agathe can unmask her sister’s killer to the authorities or she can use the knowledge to fatten her purse. She goes to the murderer with a demand for money. He arranges to meet her at the train station. Maybe he says to her that he is leaving London altogether and it is her only chance to get the money. She is not a hardened criminal, but she is an opportunist,” I went on, warming to my theme. “She agrees, and he pushes her onto the tracks, ending the threat to himself.”

I sat back with an air of triumph. Brisbane gave me a slow-lidded stare.

“Then who blackmailed Bellmont?”

I thought for a moment. “Her partner. He had Bellmont’s letters in his possession for safekeeping and realised he could make a fortune from them.”

“Then why not actually take the money? And why set fire to our house?”

I nibbled at my lip again. “It was a warning. Agathe knows who we are. She would have told her partner. The relationship between you and Bellmont means that you would certainly work on his behalf to sleuth out the blackmailer. So you must be discouraged from participating in the case. You must believe I am in danger. And when you are busy attending to your wife, the blackmailer will strike Bellmont again.”

The cigar fell from his mouth, scattering ash and sparks. Brisbane retrieved it with a smothered curse and fixed me with a smile that was very nearly accusing.

“That is a damned fine piece of logic,” he said, almost grudgingly.

“Thank you.” I smiled sweetly at him. “Your trousers are on fire.”

He looked down and swatted idly at the lazy plume of smoke upon his thigh.

“Do not tell me you failed to think of it,” I said once the fire was out.

He gave me a nasty look. “Of course I did. I sent word to Bellmont to reply to no further demands until he heard from me.”

I felt a little deflated then. “Oh. Then why were you so astonished to hear my theory?”

“Because it was the same as mine,” he explained. “All this time, you have stumbled into murderers and bumbled into solutions, and I thought it was an accident.”

“I ought to be tremendously offended by that, but you are right. Most of my solutions were somewhat accidental.”

“No, they were not,” he maintained. “They were not the product of analytical reasoning, at least not that you realised. But you took in the information and created a working hypothesis and followed it through, the same as I do. Only the method is at a variance between us. I knew you were clever,” he finished. “I just did not realise that you do have a methodology. It is entirely unique, but you have one.”

I preened a little. “I will go even further and say that I think Madame’s murderer will have wanted to be on hand when the murder was committed. I think it must have been one of the guests at the séance.”

“I hardly think that General Fortescue or Sir Henry Eddington fit the bill.”

I turned the notion over in my mind and was forced to agree. “No,” I said slowly, “and I don’t suppose Sir Morgan is a likely candidate, either. He has pots of money.”

Brisbane went dangerously still. “Sir Morgan?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Sir Morgan Fielding. He was the last of my calls the day I visited the general and Sir Henry.”

“Why?”

I wrinkled my nose, thinking. “I suppose I went there last because his address was the farthest from home.”

Brisbane’s voice was tight, as if he held a close rein upon his temper, but only just. “I mean, why did you call upon him at all?”

“Because he was there the night of the séance. But you knew that,” I said rather unhelpfully.

“I did not. From my vantage point in the spirit cabinet, I could see only you and Madame and our American friend, Sullivan. I think you might have mentioned at least once that you had called upon Morgan Fielding in the course of your investigations.” The last word was delivered with tight-lipped fury, and I adopted a soothing tone.

“Brisbane, really, you needn’t fuss. I know he’s a terrible flirt, but I was in no danger whatsoever. In fact, I discovered that we are cousins. As it happens, he is one of my Uncle Benvolio’s by-blows. There is a family resemblance, I thought. He looks a bit like Plum.”

Brisbane’s jaw was clenched so tightly, I could hear the bones grinding. “I have no concerns about your fidelity, Julia. I have grave concerns about your intelligence.”

“I do beg your pardon!” I sat upright and the dormouse, still nestled in my bosom, gave a little squeak of protest. “You just complimented me upon that very faculty.”

“I withdraw it. You embarked upon a line of enquiry you insisted was essential without ever once giving me the name of the one person who is doubtless at the centre of the whole damn affair!”

I matched his heated tone with one of pure ice. “I believe I did attempt to relate to you the facts of my calls and you interrupted me with a rather magnificent display of temper, much as you are doing now. If you do not have all the facts of the case, perhaps you have no one but yourself to blame.”

Brisbane opened his mouth and shut it with a snap. His mouth remained closed, but I could hear him muttering under his breath.

“What are you saying?”

“I am counting. To one hundred. In Cantonese.”

That took the better part of five minutes, but once he was finished, he had a better grasp of his temper and we were able to discuss the matter more cordially.

“Perhaps, my dear,” he began with exaggerated
politesse,
“you would be good enough to relate to me the details of your call upon Sir Morgan.”

“I would be very happy to,” I replied with equal civility. Hastily, I sketched the pleasant hour I had spent with Morgan, and Brisbane’s expression grew blacker the longer I talked. But I omitted nothing, and when I was finished, Brisbane eyed me narrowly.

“Is that the whole of it?”

I sighed. “Really, you are the most exasperating man. Haven’t I just told you everything? Now it is your turn. Tell me precisely why Morgan Fielding holds such interest for you.”

Brisbane lit another cigar, taking several deep inhalations of the heady smoke before beginning his tale.

“To understand Morgan, you must know the history of the Spirit Club itself. At the height of the Regency, the Spirit Club was built as a brothel by one of the most notorious madams in London. It was unlike anything ever built before, and it was designed to cater to the most decadent fantasies of the most exclusive clientele. In particular, it was created as a haven for gentlemen whose tastes ran to watching rather than doing.”

I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He slanted me a look full of meaning. “There is a certain species of gentleman who prefers to watch the goings-on rather than participate.”

“Good heavens, why?”

Brisbane flicked me a smile and continued. “There were accommodations made for all sorts of tastes, but this particular one suited the madam, as well, for the various peeps and trapdoors installed in the house for her clients’ pleasure also ensured she could keep a watchful eye upon her ladies. The house was extremely successful, and the proprietress took that success as a motivation to build another house. Only, this time she borrowed, heavily, and overextended her credit. She was forced to sell both houses, and after that, the original house passed through many hands and many incarnations before falling empty. It had been a brothel, a gaming hell and even a school at one point. But in the end, all of the ventures failed and it closed its doors until 1870.”

“What happened in 1870?”

“Cast your mind back to Continental affairs at the time.”

I furrowed my brow, and a sudden image of the Empress Eugénie sprang to mind. “The fall of Napoléon III?”