The Dark Enquiry (12 page)

I blinked at him. “You were attempting to steal the Crown Jewels?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“From the Tower?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“How close were you to success?” I demanded.

They exchanged glances again, this time with a touch of pride. “I held the Koh-i-Noor in my hands,” Bert Pigeon said, raising his blunt chin.

I turned to Aquinas. “I really ought to have a vinaigrette for moments like this.”

“Shall I fetch one, my lady?” he asked, eager for something—
anything
—to do.

“No, I think I shall recover.” I turned to the pair. “I can only surmise that my husband had his reasons for engaging you, and I trust him completely. I would, however, like to remind you quite firmly, that any and all felonious activities are strongly discouraged from this point on.”

They nodded sharply. I turned to the shorter of the two. “It is the custom to address footmen by their Christian names, but I cannot have a footman called Bert. You will be Pigeon in the house.”

He nodded briskly. “That suits me fine, my lady.”

I pressed my lips together, trying not to think of the perfectly turned out and impeccably mannered servants that other people managed to employ. “And you, I do not believe I heard your name.”

“Swanson, my lady, although since Bert and I took up partnership, folk usually call me Swan.”

I looked from one to the other. “Very well. Pigeon and Swan. Welcome to our employ.”

I hesitated, a sudden suspicion dawning. “Pigeon, how did you break your nose?”

He gave me another of his broad smiles. “Ah, that would be Mr. Brisbane, my lady. I did require a bit of persuasion to give up the Crown Jewels.”

“Of course you did,” I said faintly. “Of course you did.”

Accompanied by a rather conspicuous Pigeon, Morag, Swan and I went to pay a call upon my sister, collecting a fresh newspaper along the way. In spite of my admonitions to Brisbane about leaving Madame’s death well-enough alone, I wanted to see what the more sensationalist newspapers might have to say upon the subject. Brisbane always read the
Times,
but I wanted something a little more colourful, so I instructed Pigeon to purchase a copy of the
Illustrated Daily News
. It described the inquest of Madame in lurid detail, complete with some rather fine sketches of the affair. Unlike the
Times,
this periodical featured a great deal of speculation, including some unsavoury information about Madame’s work as a medium and her penchant for well-placed lovers.

“Blast,” I muttered as I perused the article. To read the
Times,
one would suppose the business over and done with, but the journalist—if one could call him such—from this paper clearly wished to prolong the affair. I skipped to the byline, noting the name—Peter Sullivan—and put the newspaper aside. Doubtless Mr. Sullivan and his proprietors hoped to sell newspapers and were sensationalising the situation for profit, but I hoped they would find bigger game to hunt and quickly, for Bellmont’s sake.

I discarded the newspaper before I reached Portia’s, but I might have known she would have already read the full account for herself. I had not seen her since I had left her house the night of the séance. I was a trifle put out with her for giving me up to Brisbane so easily, so I had not called upon her. I had merely sent word to her that I had followed Brisbane as far as the Spirit Club and learned nothing of importance regarding either my husband or our brother. Whether she believed that or not was another matter. She fairly pounced as soon as I arrived, pausing only to blink in astonishment at my footmen before whisking me off to her morning room for a private tête-à-tête.

“I shan’t even ask where you found those two. You look as if you are trailing about town with the remnants of a circus. Now, I haven’t seen you for far too long. Tell me everything you discovered about Bellmont,” she instructed.

I folded my hands in my lap and adopted a guileless expression. “No mystery at all, I’m afraid,” I said smoothly. “Bellmont’s call at Brisbane’s consulting rooms was simply by way of being a family visit. Brisbane wanted to install a telephone at our house and meant for it to be a surprise. That is why he lied about Bellmont calling at his rooms in Chapel Street.”

Portia pulled a face. “I call that distinctly disappointing. And Bellmont was not involved in the matter at the Spirit Club at all?”

“Apparently not. Brisbane was there to unmask Madame Séraphine as a charlatan, but she died before he had the chance. So, no great revelations to be had.”

“Oh, that is disappointing! I should love to think of Bellmont entangled in some bit of naughtiness,” Portia said, falling into gales of laughter.

If my own laughter was subdued, she did not seem to notice. I was immensely relieved at having put her off the scent, and to ensure that she stayed off it, I offered up another tasty morsel of family gossip and related to her the facts of Plum’s burgeoning attachment to Felicity Mortlake.

Portia was agog, and we spent a companionable visit chattering about our various friends and relations, and by the time I had left, I resolved to put the mysteries of the Spirit Club entirely behind us.

And so the matter of Madame Séraphine’s mysterious death seemed to fade away. Over the next week, I busied myself with my new photographic equipment, establishing a proper studio in the attics at Chapel Street, and spending nearly every waking moment intent upon the craft. I was enthralled by the process, which perfectly married the scientific and the artistic, particularly as I had never thought of myself as an artist before. My sole attempt at sculpture had ended in tears, and all of my watercolours resembled muddy bogs. But behind the lens, something dynamic came to the fore and I felt as if I were really seeing the world for the first time. I was at home in that studio, whether suffocating under the heavy drape behind the camera or working with the nasty chemicals required to fix and develop the images. There were noxious smells from the solutions and draughts from the windows left open to ventilate them, but I did not mind.

I experimented with light and shadow, learning how the merest shift from one to the other can highlight a face or throw it into relief. I took endless photographs of Plum and Monk and Morag, and even Mrs. Lawson was upon occasion persuaded to sit for me. At first I had costumed my subjects as many lady photographers did. The fashion was to present classical subjects from literature or mythology, to illustrate ancient tales with modern faces. But I found I preferred nothing so much as the naked emotion of a sitter’s true feelings revealed upon the features. Perhaps it was a disastrous sitting with Morag garbed as Boadicea that persuaded me, but in the end, I put aside the costumes and the props and began to photograph people as I saw them—not as I wanted them to be, not as they wanted themselves to be, but as they were.

To Mrs. Lawson’s outrage, I began to photograph all sorts of people whose paths crossed mine, from duchesses to coster boys directly from the gutter. I made no effort to clean them up. I wanted them as they were, gritty and real, London come to life in a thousand faces. I photographed Pigeon and Swan. I photographed my sister with her babe, and I even photographed Auld Lachy, the irritable Scottish hermit living in Father’s garden. On one memorable occasion, I heard the muffin bell and ran downstairs to persuade the muffin man to sit for me, promising to buy all of his wares if he would oblige me.

For this last, Mrs. Lawson lodged a formal complaint with Brisbane, threatening to turn us out of the house entirely. Brisbane offered Mrs. Lawson a substantial bonus, and I continued happily in my newest endeavour. I plagued Brisbane only marginally less to let me partipate in his investigations, and upon one or two occasions, provided him some assistance in photographing evidence he wished to preserve. Matters between us settled to an easy routine, and I found myself relaxing into marriage. Each afternoon I descended from my studio to take tea with Brisbane, as cosy and companionable as any married couple, and I did not fail to notice that Brisbane himself seemed easier. He consulted me upon cases without prompting, and I offered my perspective without pushing myself forward to share in the physical dangers of his work. It became more of a partnership, I thought, a refuge for both of us, and I allowed myself to be happy.

And so it was that I had quite forgot the matter of Madame’s death. I had seen little of Bellmont, but he and Brisbane had apparently mended their quarrel, for as I descended to tea one afternoon, I found him in Brisbane’s rooms.

“Monty! I did not know you were coming. Brisbane, have you rung for Mrs. Lawson to tell her we will be three for tea?” I asked brightly.

But one look at Bellmont’s face told me this was not to be a peaceful family visit. He was slumped in a chair, his complexion waxy and pale, clutching a letter in his hands. I sank into the chair next to him and put out my hand.

He seized it, his expression aghast. “Good God, Julia, what have you been doing? Your hands are utterly ruined.”

“I have been at work in my darkroom. The chemicals turn the skin black.”

He dropped the hand with a little moue of distaste. “You look common. Is there no remedy?”

“I hear cyanide of potassium works rather well, but it has a tendency to be fatal,” I replied tartly. “And haven’t you more important things to worry yourself over just now? Like the blackmail note in your hand?”

Wordlessly, he handed it over, and I saw that his hand trembled slightly. The hunted look had come back into his eyes.

The letter was concise, as such things often are. It explained that the sender was in possession of certain papers that would destroy Bellmont if he did not arrange payment for a particular sum. I lifted my head to Brisbane.

“There are no directions for payment.”

Brisbane was thoughtful. “Such demands seldom include details with the first communication. The sender wants Bellmont in a state of anxiety so that when the details are conveyed, he will act. This is merely the first.”

“The first for the rest of my life,” Bellmont put in bitterly. He pierced Brisbane with his gaze. “What do you advise?”

Brisbane gave a slow-lidded blink. “I advise you to have the sum in readiness. When the next demand comes, pay it.”

“Pay it!” Bellmont’s face flushed dull red and he started forward in his chair. “You must be mad.”

Brisbane endeavoured to explain. “You have nothing to work with here, only a single sheet of paper of the sort that may be purchased at any stationer’s in London. The postmark tells us nothing save that it was posted in London, which gives us over four million suspects. There are no telltale watermarks upon the page, no distinctive perfumes. There are no peculiarities of syntax or grammar to give us a hint as to the blackmailer’s identity, and there is nothing to learn from the handwriting save that these smudges here indicate the individual wrote with the left hand in order to disguise the writing and throw you from the scent. So,” he concluded, “we have a right-handed blackmailer who lives in London and has the means to purchase the cheapest of all possible paper.”

“But you must know something else,” Bellmont insisted. “The person must be close to Madame to have her papers.”

“Not necessarily. Madame may have sent them to anyone of her acquaintance, a friend, a banker, a man of affairs.”

“Surely a banker would not attempt to blackmail a member of Parliament,” I put in.

Brisbane slanted me a curious look. “You have never met the sort of bankers I have dealt with,” he observed. “In any event, Madame could have given her papers to anyone at all, including any member of the Spirit Club, her family, even her other lovers.” He paused a moment and Bellmont sucked in his breath sharply. Brisbane went on. “Or she may not have given them to anyone. She may have hidden them and they were discovered after her death. They could have been secured for safekeeping and some chambermaid may have helped herself.”

“I hardly think a chambermaid would be sufficiently intelligent to orchestrate a blackmail scheme,” Bellmont objected.

Brisbane smiled thinly at the sarcasm. “No, but a police inspector might. Madame’s rooms were searched along with the rest of the Spirit Club. Any one of a dozen police officers or their superiors could have found the papers and decided to make use of them. I hear a police pension is not what it ought to be,” he finished blandly.

Bellmont looked at him with barely concealed contempt. “I shall never forget how singularly difficult you have been during this business.”

I put a hand to my brother’s sleeve. “Bellmont, he is only attempting to prepare you for the worst.” But another thought had come to me, one I wished to discuss only with my husband. I rose briskly and put an end to the conversation. “You must leave it with us, Monty. Go and get the funds together and when you receive another note, you must bring it to us at once. In the meantime, we will begin to work on the likeliest sources for this new outrage.”

Bellmont did not like being brushed aside, but he eventually left, and I resumed my seat, only to find Brisbane’s eyes resting thoughtfully upon me. I gave him a reproving glance.

“You might have made that easier for him.”

“Yes, I might have,” he agreed. “But I saw no point. He is demanding the earth and he cannot have it. He is still the same arrogant, entitled, overbearing fellow he always was. It will do him good to cool his heels.”

“I do not say you are wrong about him,” I said with some primness, “but you should be a trifle more considerate of his difficulties in future. This entire affair has shaken him badly.”

Brisbane snorted. “My dear wife, your brother and his mentor, Salisbury, have embarked upon a scheme to augment the navy by some twenty-one million pounds. If he cannot manage his nerves over a simple spot of blackmail, how can he possibly hope to keep Germany in check?”

I sighed. Brisbane had strongly opposed the Naval Defence Act, and some of the more acrimonious exchanges he and Bellmont had had in the past struck precisely upon the point that Bellmont felt it necessary to spend millions of pounds shoring up the navy against German aggression whilst Brisbane maintained it would only lead to an escalation of German and French military spending. The entire question left me cold, but they had argued contentiously upon the matter, and Bellmont had been less than gracious when Parliament finally passed the act and building had begun.