A Poisoned Season (33 page)

“You didn’t return to Richmond, even when she died?”

“No. What would have been the point?”

“I still don’t understand why you are now collecting things that belonged to the queen.”

“I felt a terrible guilt after my mother died. I’d left her alone and mocked what she viewed as the sacred purpose of her life. Shortly after her death, I overheard a gentleman saying that he owned a Limoges box purported to have belonged to the French queen. I knew that my mother would have loved to own such a thing.”

“And you couldn’t afford to buy it from him?”

“Not at all. I’d had a difficult time earning a living in London and had discovered that I possess a certain talent for entering houses
undiscovered. And that talent, once developed, offers a handy way to supplement one’s income. It was simple to get the box from Lord Grantham’s house.”

“And the rest?”

“It’s rather addictive, sneaking about like that, causing a stir. Quite exciting.”

“So why did you return the pink diamond?”

“Despite my best efforts, it was impossible for me to completely rid myself of the hereditary awe for the House of Bourbon my family has passed to me. Once I realized that I’d taken the stone from the dauphin’s heir, I thought I ought to give it back, particularly as it was he who paid for my schooling.”

“David Francis is the true heir?” I wondered if Beatrice was aware of this. “You didn’t know this when you took the diamond? Surely your mother would have told you?”

“No. That was something revealed only once a person had agreed to carry on the family business. Absurd, isn’t it? So I didn’t know it was Francis. Not until I read in the newspapers that he owned the snuffbox. When I’d refused it, my mother made a great show of saying that it would be gone from our family forever, that I’d left her no choice but to return it to the Bourbons.”

“Who do you think killed him?”

“I’ve not the slightest idea. Of course this all proves my mother right. The Bourbons did still need watching.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” I said.

“No, it wouldn’t have.”

“How did you get Léonard’s letters?”

“I’m afraid they were one of the first things I stole. I stumbled on them quite by accident. I’d gone into the library at a country house to get an enameled Fabergé box that was on display. When I removed it, I noticed a bundle of papers behind some books on the same shelf. They were held together with a red ribbon, and I thought they might
be love letters. Being the romantic that I am, I pulled them out, hoping for a good read. So far as I know, the gentleman who owned them still has not noticed that they’re missing.”

“Who is it? I should return them to him.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Of course I would.”

“Then I shan’t tell you.”

“Why didn’t you take Marie Antoinette’s letters from Mr. Francis when you stole the pink diamond?”

“I had no idea that he had them.” He rose from the bench and stood in front of me. “This has been lovely, darling, but I’m afraid I must run.”

“No, wait. What about the things you’ve stolen. Will you give them back?”

“Certainly not.”

“Not even Cécile’s earrings? For me?”

“Maybe if they were yours.” He reached down and turned my head to the side, gently touching my ear. “They would look lovely on you.”

“You’re not planning to disappear again, are you?”

“I’ve no reason to stay.”

“Can you at least tell me how to reach you?”

“For what? So that you can abandon the dashing Mr. Hargreaves for me? I don’t think so, darling. But I’ll always come if you need me.”

“I don’t like being followed, Sebastian.”

“You can reach me through the
Times
.” He bowed and walked away. I didn’t bother to call after him but sighed and looked down at where he had sat next to me. There, on the bench, he had left my notebook.

31

T
HE MOMENT
I
RETURNED HOME,
I
PULLED OUT THE LETTER
I’
D
received from Colin the previous week, the first he had sent from France. He’d written it on the ferry and posted it as soon as he’d arrived in Calais, even before boarding the train for Paris. I smiled as I read it; he always managed to make letters sound like his half of a conversation, and I could almost hear him saying the words, picture him sitting across from me, running a hand through his tousled hair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. I did not, however, let this entrancing image distract me from my purpose. I skimmed the rest of the page until I found the sentence for which I was looking.
We’ve tickets for the opera on the third, seats in the first row of the balcony.

I composed a cable for him, a clumsy-sounding message, but it would convey its intended meaning when he read the first letter of every third word. This would provide him a brief but incisive update on the situation in London, particularly as it pertained to Charles Berry.

“Did you see that another letter arrived from Paris today, madam?” Davis asked as he took the cable from me, looking not at me, but at the pile of unopened mail on my desk.

“No, I haven’t had a chance.” I skimmed through the letters until I found one addressed in Colin’s familiar handwriting.

“Would you like me to send this cable at once, or shall I wait until after you’ve read what Mr. Hargreaves has to say?”

“Send it now, Davis. It’s quite urgent. If I need to add anything, I can always send another.”

Davis bowed and left me to my reading. I was glad for the privacy the moment I opened the envelope. This letter was, if I may be so bold, the most exquisitely written, lyrical declaration of love that had ever been put to paper. It sang from the page. I read it three times through before noticing that my skin had grown hot, and my hands were trembling. So beautiful was it that I longed to read it aloud, to hear its melody spoken, until I remembered Colin’s suggestion that in a London town house, one is never truly alone.

And then, all at once, I realized that I’d missed the point entirely. With a sigh, I pulled out a blank piece of paper and copied out the first letter of every third word. His news complemented mine perfectly: Lady Elinor’s fortune had been spent funding Garnier and his would-be revolutionaries. That was why there was no money left for Isabelle’s dowry. She wouldn’t need one if her mother were in the position to arrange for her marriage to a future king. And surely, financing the enterprise gave Lady Elinor the power to choose a queen for Charles Berry.

It was a risky proposition, however. Without a dowry, Isabelle would be in dire straits should the restoration fail. But it was nearly a reasonable gamble. The republic in France was staggeringly unpopular. Monsieur Garnier was loved by all and was too savvy a politician to fall victim to the weaknesses that had caused Boulanger’s coup to fail.

Did Lady Elinor know that Berry was a fraud? Had she been willing to risk so much only because she believed he truly had descended from Louis XVI? The knowledge that her family had helped refugees
fleeing from the terror nagged at me. Would they have known what became of the dauphin?

I am not particularly proud of what I did next, but my options were limited. I sent a note to Isabelle, inviting her to come with me to the British Museum. I received her reply at breakfast the next morning and went round to collect her at Meadowdown as soon as I’d finished eating.

We walked through two Greco-Roman galleries before, in the Archaic Room, I summoned the courage to turn the conversation in the direction I knew it must go.

“Do you miss Mr. Berry?” I asked as we stood in front of the Strang-ford Apollo, a marble statue said to be from the Cyclades. Looking at it made me long for Santorini.

“I find that I can bear his absence rather well,” Isabelle said.

“I’ve learned about your family’s involvement in assisting refugees from the French Revolution. It seems some sort of poetic justice that you should wind up engaged to the heir of the House of Bourbon.”

“That’s precisely how my mother views it.” She stared blankly at Apollo.

“I understand that the Torringtons helped a most important person,” I said. “It must be quite a wonderful story.”

This, to my surprise, made Isabelle smile. “I always did like it, especially the bit about the pink diamond. So romantic.”

“I don’t think I know that part,” I said.

“The dauphin offered my family a pink diamond to repay them for their help, but my great-great-grandfather refused to accept it. It was one of the few things the boy had that belonged to his mother, and the Torringtons felt strongly that he should keep it as a memento of her.” She laughed. “A lovely gesture but foolish in the end. He obviously had to sell it at some point, probably to pay for his passage to America. If he hadn’t, it never would have wound up being stolen by that dreadful thief here in England, would it?”

“No, I suppose not,” I said, and realized that I’d been holding my breath while she spoke. Apollo’s smile seemed to reproach me.

We walked through the rest of the museum. Isabelle found the mummies most diverting. As for me, I hardly took notice of anything that we saw. I did not for a moment believe that Louis Charles had sold the pink diamond. When the newspapers reported its theft, Lady Elinor must have immediately identified the stone’s owner as the one person who could, without fail, bring her plan to ruin.

Did she confront him? Confirm in some way that he was Louis Charles’s heir? I felt sick once again, certain that, had I not convinced Mr. Francis to report the theft, he would still be alive. My thoughts turned at once to little Edward. Was there any possibility that Lady Elinor knew about the boy? Sebastian was not the only person who had been following me; could I have unwittingly led her to Edward? And what about Mrs. White? Did she know of her son’s royal blood?

I invented a headache and took Isabelle home, then directed Waters to drive me to the Whites’ house. The housekeeper admitted me at once but glowered as she brought me to her mistress. I would not have thought it possible, but Mrs. White was even thinner than when I had last seen her.

“I’m so sorry to bother you again, but I have a few more questions about Mr. Francis. Did he ever tell you anything…special…about himself? Perhaps by way of explaining why it was so important for him to have a child?”

“Don’t all men want children?”

“Probably,” I said. “But he gave you no particular reason for his desire?”

“No, Lady Ashton. He was always very kind to me but kept his thoughts to himself. Took great interest in what I was doing, and, of course, in Edward, but almost never told us anything about the rest of his life. No surprise there, though.”

“Have you noticed anything strange around your house since his death?”

“Whatever can you mean?” she asked.

“Has anything or anyone struck you as suspicious?”

“You don’t think that someone in my household—”

“No, no. It’s just that I have reason to believe that the person who killed Mr. Francis might have an interest in Edward.”

“You think my son is in danger?”

“I can’t be sure,” I said. “But I think it would be best if you and the boy went away for a while.”

“We don’t have anywhere to go.” I had to strain to hear her voice.

“Don’t worry. I know of a place where you will be perfectly safe.”

“I don’t know that I should trust you,” she said.

“I can well understand that, and I fear there’s little I can do to reassure you. Forgive me, but you and Mrs. Francis held dear the same man. She knows me well enough to trust that I am capable of solving his murder. Please, Mrs. White, I’m only trying to protect your son.”

“I’m not sure what to think,” she said, and tugged at her already ragged cuticles.

“Inspector Manning of Scotland Yard can vouch for me. Would you like me to send him to you?”

“Mr. Francis would want me to keep the boy from harm.”

“Will you go?”

She looked as if she wanted to sigh but that the effort would be too great for her frail body. “Yes. What else can I do? I can’t very well stay here if I’ve been warned of danger, and I wouldn’t know where to take him on my own. But I would like to speak to the inspector.”

“I’ll ask him to come as soon as possible. I shall need you to be ready to depart tomorrow. Tell none of your servants, and don’t bother to pack. I’ll arrange for clothes and whatever else you need to be purchased for you. If there’s anything to which Edward is especially
attached, you may bring it, so long as it won’t draw attention to the fact that you’re leaving.”

“You’re certain this is necessary?”

“No, I’m not. But if there is danger, and we do nothing, the consequences could be more dreadful than either of us can imagine.”

I
nspector Manning called on Mrs. White a few hours later and reported that he had little difficulty convincing her that she was doing the right thing by following my advice. After talking to her, he seemed to take my role in the investigations more seriously.

My suspicions regarding Lady Elinor troubled me greatly, particularly because, if they were correct, Isabelle’s life would be thrown into turmoil. I hated to think that a woman who had been a family friend for so many years could be guilty of such a crime, but it seemed increasingly likely that she was responsible for the deaths in Richmond. I needed firm evidence, and decided to visit Floris, the store from which the shaving lotion that had killed both men had been purchased. Mr. Floris himself spoke to me. He was, understandably, hesitant at first. But when I explained the nature of the case on which I was working, he agreed to help. Together, we combed through his records. A mere two days after the story of the pink-diamond theft appeared in the papers, someone bought one bottle of lavender shaving lotion. The receipt, unlike the others, did not list the name of the purchaser, so Mr. Floris called for the clerk who had written up the sale.

“Oh yes, I do recall this,” he said, smiling. “She ordered a number of items for herself, too, but wanted this to be kept separate. I believe it was a gift for a gentleman.”