London (15 page)

“And show it to her in person?”

I nodded. “I'll need some kind of excuse though. It is a bit late to just turn up at someone's door. But who knows? If she's there, she might be willing to answer some questions.”

The walk from Sloane Square to St. Leonard's Terrace was a short one. The mild, dry weather had held and the pretty square was busy. To our right as we left the station, people were sitting outdoors at the Colbert and Botanist restaurants. King's Road was lively; people were window-shopping or chatting at the small tables set up on the pavement outside some of the restaurants. I couldn't, however, shake off the feeling that we were being followed by someone and had been since we left the La Lune party.

“Funny you should say that…” Sebastian said when I told him. “I sort of had that feeling when we left the party too, but I haven't actually seen anyone. Have you?”

“No…well, apart from a shadow that I just caught out of the corner of my eye, but then again, it could have been anything. I'm probably just thinking too much about the case.”

“And? Any idea yet who might have sent the photo to Gavin in the first place?” Sebastian asked as we walked past the Saatchi Gallery.

I shook my head. “No, not enough of an idea anyway. And there's always the chance that some random troublemaker is behind this. Johnny is famous enough to have them. Although attacking Gavin is pretty sick. But if one of the four did send Gavin the photo—and I'm assuming one of them did—then their reactions haven't helped me much so far. I mean, Caro seemed uninterested, nearly dismissive, and then she was bustled away before I could ask more. Georgie didn't say anything, but I got the feeling she knows something. Then again, I could say that about Caro. The way she was so dismissive about it might tell us something…”

“You mean perhaps she's just a good actress?”

“Umm-hmm, something like that. On the other hand, Johnny was aggressive. He growled and thrust the photo back at me. Of all of them, he definitely seemed the most rattled—but why?”

“Could be any number of reasons,” said Sebastian.

“Well, at least I have a better idea of who Caro, Johnny, and Georgie are now. If we could just figure out who sent the photo, that would help us to work out what secrets they're covering up.”

“What? Secrets? Now you think there might be more than one secret?” Sebastian asked.

“Possibly. There were two ‘accidental deaths' after all.” Just as I said this, we reached St. Leonard's Terrace. Jane's dainty house sat more or less in the middle of the pretty and elegant block. Built of red brick and with large sash windows on the first and second floors, her house was the smallest on the street. Or to put it another way, her house seemed to be the only one that had kept its original Georgian proportions. No rooftop additions or side extensions marred its dollhouse dimensions. The windows were lit, and even in the evening light, the house sparkled with cleanliness and order. Two neat topiary obelisks in black cast-iron urns sat on either side of the short flight of steps that led to her bright-red door.

“Does she own this house?” I asked.

“I didn't look into that,” Sebastian said. “But I can… Why?”

“It's an expensive address. A house like hers—even if it is small—must cost a fortune.” I knew the street well. My mom had redecorated one of these houses for a rich banker. “If she owns it, I'd like to know how—with her modest beginnings and working as a fit model, private secretary, and then nanny—she was able to afford such a upscale address.”

Sebastian nodded as he quickly scribbled something in his notebook.

Suddenly we caught sight of an old lady moving in what looked like the sitting room. “That must be her!” I said. “She's still up. I'm going to try knocking on her door now.”

“Have you thought of a good cover story?”

I nodded as I pulled a small pen and my copy of the photograph out of my clutch bag. “This,” I said, as I quickly waved the photo in my hand, “is my cover. Not that it's a great one, but it's the best I can do right now.” Then, using my clutch bag as a writing desk, I rapidly scribbled Jane's name and address on the back of the photo and the names Johnny and Julian Vane on the front.

“What are you doing?” Sebastian asked.

“You'll see,” I said before leaving him behind and quickly crossing the street to her house. I opened the dainty gate that led into Jane's front yard and walked up to the front door. An old-fashioned wall light illuminated the door. I found the buzzer and rang. To my surprise, the door opened almost immediately.

The lady I'd seen through the window was standing in front of me. Tall and slim, she was dressed in trousers and a jacket. A large, colorful brooch was pinned to her left shoulder. It looked like one of the pins I'd seen on the accessories table at Johnny Vane's.

“Jane Wimple?” I asked.

She had a curious way of looking at me. Almost as if she couldn't see me—and yet it felt as if she was carefully taking in every detail of my appearance. “I was expecting someone else entirely,” she said. “And, yes, I am Jane Wimple, although I don't think I can do anything for you. Do your parents know you're out?”

She wasn't unkind, just brisk and very sure of herself. She started to close the door, but I pushed my arm against it and quickly said, “I'm sorry it's late, but I have an old photo here that I came across this evening. It has the name Jane Wimple and this address written on it. Here…” I handed her the photo. “I thought it might be yours.”

At once she stood still, opening her door wider to get a better light. She studied the photo, but without budging from the threshold.

Meanwhile I quickly looked into her hall. An oriental rug in hues of faded oranges and blues lay on the stone-flagged floor. In front of me a staircase ascended, and through the door to the left, I glimpsed a pretty room decorated in tones of yellow. Beside the bottom step of the stairs, a large polished-brass umbrella stand held a small collection of umbrellas and canes, each a different color, pattern, and length. Beyond that, the house seemed to be as neat on the inside as it was on the outside.

After a few moments she said, “I'm afraid my eyesight is poor. Why don't you tell me what it shows?”

I described the photo to her, but she said nothing. Frustration was beginning to gnaw at me. Why would no one tell me anything about this picture?

“I came across it when I was researching an article about Johnny Vane for my school magazine. I heard that you raised Johnny and his brother, that you were close to them—and Georgie too.” I saw her stiffen when I said this.

“Close?”

Now I didn't know what to say. She was prickly, and if I said the wrong thing, I clearly ran the risk of turning her off. I tried being as vague as possible. “Yes, well, sort of—”

“There was no ‘sort of' about it,” she hissed.

Ah, so she wanted me to know she had been close to them. Good, then I'd push the opposite way. Hopefully I could provoke her into talking. “Well, I was surprised to hear that you could have been so close to the Vane children, because I know how much their mother, Clarissa, was loved and admired. From everything I've heard and read, it seems she must have been really, really lovely—”

“She was lovely, that's right,” Jane interrupted, “but she was also a vain, flighty creature who was tortured by demons of her own making. I'm the one who kept that household together—not Clarissa. I'm the one the children were close to—not Clarissa. She has never been close to them.”

“You mean, she never was,” I corrected her quietly.

Jane's eyes were blazing. For someone who had trouble seeing, she could certainly focus when she wanted to—and right now she was focused on me.

Suddenly my phone vibrated. It was a message from Sebastian:

Leave now

He gave no details, but he surely had good reason for telling me to get out. It was unlike him not to use punctuation; speed was clearly of importance.

“I'm sorry, but I have to go. My parents have just rung for me. Bye!” I didn't wait for an answer before I rushed down the steps. But as I neared the street, I spotted a figure heading toward me, and I instinctively ducked into the shadows afforded by Jane's neighbor's large shrubs. From there, I saw Johnny Vane walk past me and into the house.
So that's who she'd been expecting
, I thought.

“Thanks, Watson,” I said to Sebastian as I joined him across the street. We quickly fell into step as we headed for the Thames. Along the way I told Sebastian about my exchange with Jane.

“Funny,” Sebastian said, “how Caro and Georgie didn't react too much—or at least tried not to—yet Jane and Johnny reacted very aggressively.”

“I know. So does that tell us that Johnny and Jane have something to hide? Or just that Caro and Georgie are better actors?”

“Good questions, Holmes. I don't know.”

“Neither do I—yet. But I look forward to finding out.”

After a few minutes we reached the Chelsea Embankment and bought tickets at the booth on Cadogan Pier. We were a little early for the next departure, so after boarding, we found the seats we wanted and I pulled out my phone and searched online for images of Johnny Vane. Slowly I scrolled through the images. Johnny looked the same in nearly all of them—even the ones dating back twenty years to his graduation from Central Saint Martins. Leather biker jacket, boots, and a T-shirt: these were the basics. Sometimes there was a scarf or a chic turtleneck, but always worn with a good dose of irreverence. Even in the few photos showing Johnny in a tuxedo, his ability to twist a classic form shone through. And always there were the fingerless gloves and silver rings.

“What's so important about those images?” Sebastian asked as he sat on one side of me and watched my fingers zoom from one picture to the next.

“No special reason…it's just something Chandra said. She said Johnny never takes his gloves off. And if these images are anything to go by, she's right.”

I held my phone out for Sebastian to have a look. “Maybe he just really, really likes wearing them. Besides, by now they're clearly a part of his look.”

“That's what Chandra says, but I'd get tired of wearing gloves all the time.”

“Yeah, well, you don't live and breathe fashion.”

“True…but things aren't always what they seem, you know—as my grandfather often liked to say.”

“Okay, but how can wearing studded, fingerless gloves be anything other than what it seems?”

“Well,” I said, laughing, “I won't know unless I keep looking, will I?”

Finally the boat's engines revved to life and we slowly pulled away from the dock. The air on the Thames was invigorating and the view splendid. London's lights danced on the water's surface, and from the river, the buildings seemed totally different—more beautiful even. It was fun, standing on the prow of the boat, leaning on the railing, and watching my lovely city go past.

Sebastian pulled a folded map out of the inner pocket of his jacket and spread it out on the broad metal handrail. He'd placed red crosses on a few spots up and down the river.

“The red crosses represent the places where, according to the London Port Authority, small beaches appear when the tide is low. Considering that the Embankment is well lit, we shouldn't have any trouble finding them, even if we can't reach them all on foot.”

In fact, from the boat and even in this light, we could see a few of the narrow, rocky, but very real beaches that Sebastian had highlighted on his map. Despite the romantic view from the boat, I was excited and wanted to get off and explore one of the beaches. “I have to know what it feels like to walk on one of them, and I'd like to feel the water too,” I said.

“Fine, Holmes. Let's get off at Westminster. It would make sense to try to retrace Gavin's steps.”

I nodded as I looked at the map. There was one beach that seemed a likely destination for Gavin on Sunday morning. I pointed to it. “That's the one,” I said, just as the boat's intercom system called out “Next stop: Westminster Pier!”

We got off the boat, and once again, I had the sensation that we were being followed. Covertly, we checked behind us, but nothing or no one caught our attention.

“Well, if someone is shadowing us,” Sebastian said, “then they certainly know how to do it.”

“That doesn't make me feel any better about being followed, Watson.”

Annoyingly the shadow had moved so quickly and lightly that I hadn't had a chance to make out a distinct shape. Was it Gavin's attacker, maybe? Or someone who didn't like me questioning the Vanes? Could it even be one of the Vanes themselves? Unless I got a good look I'd never know.

There wasn't much we could do except stay alert, I thought, as Sebastian and I reached Westminster Bridge. Once there, we crossed to the south side of the river and left the bridge by the flight of steps on the right. From here to Lambeth Bridge, the Embankment was accessible to pedestrians only. After a few minutes (I was timing it), we stood in front of a simple loading dock. The beach I wanted to see was directly below us.

The loading dock was between an ice cream stand and a tour boat company. On the opposite side of the river and a bit farther down, to the right from where we stood, was the Palace of Westminster. It was spectacularly lit up, and I couldn't help but stare at its reflection rippling on the water's surface.

But after a moment, we stopped admiring the view and walked down the short flight of stairs that led to the dock. Nothing was closed off—although, of course, the small office on the dock was shut for the night. We passed some loading equipment and crates, and then climbed down a ladder that led right onto the surface of the pebbly beach. I was surprised to find that we were not alone. A couple of flashlights shone farther along the pebbly shore as a small, chattering group combed the beach. They were mudlarking!