City of Light

Chapter ELEVEN



London



April 24



9:10 AM



First thing Wednesday morning, Tom and Trevor made their way to the art dealer in Windsor Square whom Geraldine had theorized might be in possession of the infamous Whistler portrait of Isabel Blout. The dealer himself had not yet arrived, the sale of art evidently being the sort of business that was rarely transacted before luncheon. But a clerk answered Trevor’s persistent rap at the door and confirmed that the Blout portrait was among the ones being sent to the American pavilion in Paris. He explained that they were already crated, due to be shipped tomorrow, as it were, and he responded to Trevor’s request to view the painting with a palpable lack of enthusiasm.

Trevor did not like to show his Scotland Yard badge, preferring to pass in small matters as an ordinary detective, but this particular occasion seemed to demand it. The man’s derisive snort quickly changed to an obedient sniffle. He consulted the record books to find the proper crate number and escorted Trevor and Tom to the dreary packing room in the rear of the shop. It took him considerable effort to dismantle the crate with a crowbar, nearly as much to unwrap the protective tarpaper and finally undrape the muslin, but eventually the enormous portrait was broken free from its protective layers. With a final exhalation of effort, the clerk turned it around and Isabel Blout stood before them.

She was not beautiful.

That was Trevor’s first thought and it surprised him so much that any number of seconds passed before he was capable of another. The portrait was large, nearly six feet from the bottom border to the top, and thus the woman was rendered, Trevor imagined, very nearly to scale. She was taller than he would have guessed from Rayley’s description, with a milkmaid’s sway to her back and substantial hands and feet. Her face was lovely, this he would not bother to deny, but there was a certain coarseness in her person, lingering traces of her working class roots that the teal velvet gown and elegantly styled hair could not completely conceal.

No, she was not beautiful and yet…for some reason Trevor could not quite bring himself to look away. Isabel had been posed with her back to the viewer and thus her frame was twisted, looking over one shoulder. There was a sense of movement, almost flight, as if the artist had captured her in the act of a forbidden flirtatious glance. The sort of look a woman might give her lover at a party, just as dinner is about to be served and she must return to the side of her husband. Whistler’s skill as a portraitist was evident even to someone who knew as little about art as Trevor. The pose was so natural that it seemed somehow unnatural, or at least very different from the formal seated portraits Trevor was used to viewing. The longer he gazed, the deeper grew his sense of unease and then he realized why. The painting was so startlingly accurate that it reminded him of a photograph. It had the same sense of time interrupted, of someone caught utterly unaware in a single moment, as if the woman had turned without artifice, never knowing that she would be observed by centuries of strangers. The eyes were narrowed in invitation, the lips lifted in the smallest hint of an erupting smile.

Tom was likewise studying the portrait carefully, his head titled to one side. “So what do we know of the lady?”

“Only that she is no lady,” Trevor said, with a quick look over his own shoulder to confirm that the clerk had indeed left them in privacy.

“Perhaps not, but it only serves to make her more glorious. Small wonder Rayley couldn’t resist her.”

“Truly? I don’t fancy her type at all.”

“You’re joking.”

“It’s quite obvious she was born common.”

Tom exploded into a low guffaw. “Common? Really, Detective, you can be the most appalling snob. I implore you to look more closely. For there’s something quite intimate about the portrait, is there not? Something rather enticing. I mean, on one level she is gowned and styled just as one would expect in a portrait of a society wife. On another level…it makes no sense, but she seems almost naked.”

“And you find that this heightens her appeal?”

Tom looked at him incredulously.

“At the risk of seeming not merely a snob but also a prude,” Trevor continued. “I must repeat that she strikes me as unrefined. Like a stage actress playing at being a lady. The little things give her away. Look at the foot, for example, the one peeking out beneath the skirt. It’s quite large.”

“The whole painting is large.”

“But that particular foot seems somewhat…disproportionate. All the silk and satin in London can’t disguise the fact she has the bones of a farmgirl. It’s entirely lost on me why the lady has been so successful at dazzling a lengthy succession of men.”

“There’s a word for it, Welles. It’s called sex.”

Trevor gave an uneasy chuckle. “All right, all right, I’ll concede the point. Despite the fact I don’t fully understand Mrs. Blout’s appeal, I can certainly see why the portrait created the sensation Geraldine described. I can even understand why Whistler might have been reluctant to release it, for he somehow managed to create a magnificent portrait of a rather average woman. If my reaction is muted, it’s only because the lady is so different from what I’d been led to expect. Rayley said she was beautiful, and so did Geraldine. But when you really look at the image before us, piece by piece, I don’t see that beauty.”

“Beauty isn’t meant to be analyzed piece by piece,” Tom said. “Not in art and not in women. Few paintings, and few women, would survive that sort of cold scrutiny.”

“Indeed? I would say that true beauty grows more so with analysis.”

“The Mona Lisa isn’t beautiful either, not in the technical way you’re describing. But when you actually see the painting, somehow it glows.”

Trevor, whose rather spotty rural education hadn’t included much in the way of art appreciation, felt as he often did in these conversations with Tom. Outmatched and vaguely uneasy. “I wouldn’t know,” he said stiffly.

“Well, that fine lady is in Paris,” Tom said lightly, as if he were suddenly aware he might have pushed Trevor too far. “And the fine lady before us will shortly be joining her there as well. Even taking into account that it isn’t what you’d expected, does seeing the portrait answer any of your questions?”

Before Trevor could answer, the door from the shop swung open and, to Trevor’s surprise, it was not the clerk who dashed through it but rather Davy. The boy looked flushed and disheveled, as if he had run from the Yard to Windsor Square, and when his eyes fell on Trevor he tried to speak. But his voice came out broken and ragged.

“Knew I’d find you here, Sir. A telegram –“

“Here boy, take a breath. There’s no news that can’t wait. What sort of telegram?”

“From France, Sir, came to you from the chief of the Paris police.” Davy struggled to control his breathing, staring up into the suggestive, languid smile of Isabel Blout.

“It’s Detective Abrams, Sir,” he finally managed to get out. “They say he’s gone missing.”

3:40 PM

“It’s quite out of the question, Detective.”

“Your Majesty, if I might –“

The Queen held up a plump hand and Trevor fell silent in an instant.

“We can predict what you are about to say. That Detective Abrams was a member of our own Scotland Yard, and that the only reason he was even in that dissolute city was because he was following our own direct order. Both statements are correct, but the fact remains that we cannot spare you at present.”

Trevor could not help but note her use of the past tense in her evaluation of Rayley’s status. Evidently Victoria, long accustomed to trouble, had already assumed the worse.

“If Your Majesty is speaking about the business in Cleveland-“

Again the raised hand. Again Trevor’s silence.

“This is not our concern. A city the size of London will always have its share of distasteful matters. But do we know for certain that the Ripper has truly desisted?”

“It’s been five months since an incident, Your Majesty.”

“And you are convinced this is enough time to close the case?”

Trevor tried not to audibly sigh. He had gradually begun to come to peace with the idea that Jack the Ripper would never be caught and thus that the case would never be definitely closed. If Victoria intended to use the possibility of the resurgence of the Ripper as an excuse to keep Trevor and his forensics team tied to her throne, he would never leave London again.

“I do not think the citizens of London are in any such present danger, Ma’am,” he said. “And meanwhile the present danger to Detective Abrams is undeniable.”

“Is it? According to your telegram, he has been missing for no more than twelve hours and there are any number of innocent explanations for why a man might take a day from his professional duties to attend to private business. Do we know for certain he has fallen victim to a crime?”

“Rayley’s not the sort of man to simply disappear, Your Majesty, and yet his housekeeper reports he was not in his room when she knocked for breakfast. Then he fails to report to work with no explanation for his absence, although we are speaking of a man who is most regular in his habits, ma’am, most responsible in his duties. And furthermore, Your Majesty, he had written me that he was working on a case that was proving –“

The Queen looked at him in surprise. “Working on a case? Our impression was that we had sent Detective Abrams to Paris to study forensics, not to assist the French in their own daily duties.”

“That’s true, Ma’am, but the victim of this particular crime was English. Someone Rayley had met socially, that he felt he knew. When the fellow turned up dead, he naturally took a personal interest. I can’t help but believe Rayley’s disappearance is connected to the murder of a newspaper man named Patrick Graham.”

“And you also believe that, based on a few facts gleaned from his letters, you can arrive in Paris and swiftly solve a crime that the French police cannot.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor and Victoria smiled. She sought a high level of self-assurance in all her advisors and had always rather enjoyed Trevor’s confidence. His certainty in his own skills, as well as in the newborn science of forensics, was one of the reasons she had such faith in him. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “I take it Rayley Abrams is a friend?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. A friend to me personally and a most loyal servant to the throne.”

“Which is precisely why we suspect he would understand our reasoning, even if you do not. How do you imagine Detective Abrams might advise you if he were standing here?”

This time Trevor did not even try to mask his sigh. “He would tell me to stand firm on Your Majesty’s business and to leave French crimes to the French police.”

Victoria nodded. “And he would be correct.”

4:50 PM



Stone silent with disappointment, Trevor and Davy sat nursing their pints at the Tinwhistle Pub. There was little point in conversation. They both knew that the future of the forensics unit was utterly dependent upon the continuing good will of the Queen. Besides, Victoria’s last words still rang in Trevor’s ears, for he knew they were accurate. If Abrams were here at the bar and heard of Trevor’s plans to rush to Paris and take up inquiries in the Graham case, he would tell him not to be such a damned fool.

“We don’t even understand French,” Trevor said.

He did not realize he’d spoken aloud until Davy sat down his mug and shifted in his seat. “Miss Emma does,” he said.

“Speaking of which, I suppose we should still begin making our way to Geraldine’s. My heart’s hardly in it, but if she was kind enough to ask us for dinner on such short notice...” Trevor glanced around the half-filled pub. “I’m surprised Tom didn’t meet us here. He rarely passes up the chance for a pint.”

Davy nodded, but for once he did not protest when Trevor dug out a handful of coins to pay for both their drinks. Trevor noted the difference, but wasn’t sure what, if anything, to make of it. They pulled on their coats and made their silent way through the wet streets to Geraldine’s house. Up the familiar stone steps, to ring the familiar doorbell.

After a minute or so, Trevor rang again.

“Not like them to forget, Sir,” Davy ventured.

“No, it isn’t,” Trevor said reluctantly. “Perhaps we should go ‘round and knock up the kitchen. If Gage is preparing –“

Just then the door was opened by Emma, who shot them a quick and somewhat automatic smile before turning back toward the broad staircase. “Careful,” she called up to Tom, who was partnering with Gage to maneuver down a spectacularly large traveling case.

“Hard to be careful when I can’t see my feet,” Tom called back irritably, and then he added. “Come in, Trevor, Davy. As you can see, we’re in the throes of a project, but Gage did pause to make a pot of his famous Yorkshire stew.”

“What’s this about?” Trevor said, stepping into the foyer. “I take it someone is going on a trip?”

“You truly are a great detective,” Emma said drily, closing the door behind them.

“Thank you, Gage,” Tom said, as they lowered the case to the floor of the foyer. “If you need to get back to the kitchen, I believe I can manage the others on my own. Or perhaps Davy can lend me a hand.”

“Others?” said Trevor. “Who the deuce is traveling, and where?”

“A sudden impulse, darling,” Geraldine called down. She had appeared on the landing in time to hear Trevor’s last question and her arms were full as well, with a stack of hat boxes which threatened to topple down the steps at any moment. “An overpowering urge has come upon me to visit Paris, and I’ve asked Emma and Tom to accompany me.”

“And the reason for this trip?” Trevor asked warily, as Emma bounded up the steps to take the hatboxes from Geraldine.

“Perhaps you’ve heard, but there’s some sort of marvelous world exhibition in the plans,” Geraldine said, with that brand of overly-innocent sarcasm that was hers alone.

“And perhaps you’ve heard,” Emma muttered from behind the hatboxes, “that a colleague is in grave danger.”

“Look here,” said Trevor, “I’m sure when Tom came home with his news of the Queen’s decision you were all distressed, as were Davy and I. But we can’t disband the entire forensics unit to sail across –“

“The entire forensics unit?” Tom said. “That’s you and Davy, is it not? Rayley’s gone missing and Emma and I are volunteers, which leaves, if my math serves me, precisely two people in the employ of the crown.”

“She all but forbad –“

“Now, dear,” Gerry said, giving Trevor’s cheek a pat with her somewhat dusty hand. “I am of course devoted to the Queen, as are we all. That goes without saying. But not even Victoria can prevent a group of private citizens from taking a pleasure trip to Paris.”

“True enough, but something tells me you don’t intend this as a pleasure trip.”

“Don’t be cross,” Geraldine said, still utterly unperturbed by his scowl. “Shall we move into the parlor to discuss the particulars?”

“Come with us, Trevor,” Emma said quietly, reaching forward to grab his wrist as the rest of the group obediently shuffled toward the parlor door. “We need you.”

Trevor leaned down to her face, his voice as low as her own. “I suppose it was inevitable, but living with the Bainbridges has finally driven you mad. Rayley said that the French police barely deigned to work with him. Do you really think they’re prepared to collaborate with, as Geraldine so aptly puts it, ‘a group of private citizens’? The forensics unit-“

“Was created to handle the most heinous of crimes,” Tom broke in. He, Davy, and Geraldine were still clustered at the parlor door, openly eavesdropping. “And yet all they’ve given us this month is Cleveland Street. How can you even imply that case is on an equal par with Rayley’s disappearance?”

“But if we all –“

“I’ll stay, Sir,” Davy said. “No one pays any real attention to what we’re doing down in the dungeon, you’ve said as much yourself. As long as a report comes out every week or so, the supervisors upstairs may not realize I’m the only one in the laboratory.”

“You’d give up the chance to see Paris, Davy?” Geraldine asked gently. “Have you ever been out of London?”

Davy nodded. “My grandpap took me to Brighton once, Ma’am, on a fishing holiday. By the end of the first day, that little boat had cured any desire I’d ever have to cross the channel. Besides, if someone is to remain behind, I’m the sensible choice.”

“You are indeed, my friend,” Tom said, clasping his shoulder. “No matter what the question, ‘Davy Mabrey’ is the only sensible answer. So what say you, Trevor? If Davy is prepared to single-handedly wrangle the criminal element of London, can you manage to put your archaic scruples aside long enough to accompany the rest of us to Paris?”

Trevor was still shaking his head. “If I were to disobey the Queen –“

“You’re not disobeying the Queen,” Emma said. “You’re going on holiday. Really, Trevor. How long has it been since you’ve taken even a day of leisure?”

Trevor looked from one face to another, knowing he was defeated. “Eleven years.”