City of Light

Chapter SIXTEEN



Paris



4:10 PM

“We have much to tell you,” Trevor said, bursting through the doors of the apartment where Emma and Geraldine were sitting in the peacock-blue drawing room.

“We have much to tell you as well,” said Gerry, tossing aside her book. “Emma and I have found Armand Delacroix and we shall all be dining with him tonight.”

It was perhaps the only sentence in the world that could have halted Trevor in mid-stride. Tom, who was a few steps behind him, nearly crashed into his back.

“We met him in a dress shop outfitting the girl who is his latest recruit,” Emma said, closing her own book and patting the empty spot on the settee beside her to indicate Trevor should sit. “She looked no more than thirteen.”

“And Emma most heroically engaged him in conversation,” Gerry added. “Only to learn that he and this child, whom he calls Marianne and claims to be his niece, have been invited to the same party we’ll be attending at nine. Madame Seaver evidently throws her social net admirably wide, for Delacroix suggested there would be any number of celebrities present as well, people come for the opening of the exhibition. That intriguing American cowgirl…what’s her name, Emma dear?”

“Annie Oakley,” Emma said.

“Bloody marvelous,” Tom said. “They say she can shoot a cigar from a man’s mouth at a hundred paces.”

“Mercy,” said Geraldine. “Do you think she’ll demonstrate at the soiree?”

“I can’t imagine,” said Tom. “But we too have had an eventful day. Do you wish to tell them, Trevor?”

“It was so eventful that I feel as if facts have fallen on me like an avalanche,” said Trevor. “I haven’t yet had the leisure to sort them all out, and here you have greeted me with even more startling news. No, you must be the one to bring the ladies up to date with our own adventures, Tom. I’m too overwhelmed to know how to begin.”

Tom nodded and very neatly summarized the events of the last eight hours, beginning with their gratifying welcome at the hands of Rubois, Rayley’s incomplete notes, their findings at the morgue, and ending with the arrival of Davy’s telegram. To Trevor’s relief, he glossed over the particulars of their examination of The Lady of the River, although at the suggestion that the unidentified boy had possibly died from asphyxiation, Geraldine had frowned, as if something about that singular piece of information distressed her.

“I don’t completely understand,” Emma said when he finished. “Will you tolerate a question which may strike the two of you men as ridiculous?”

“It won’t be the first ridiculous question of the day, I assure you,” Tom said. “And you’re looking rather stylish, by the way, if I can be forgiven for briefly changing the subject.”

“Her new day dress,” Gerry said smugly, as Emma’s gaze fell guiltily downward. Geraldine had insisted on purchasing not only the celadon green and pale pink gowns but a third as well, the slim-hipped dark navy dress Emma was now wearing, a more practical outfit for everyday use. “And if you think she looks smart in the navy, wait until you see her tonight. The shop girl suggested she try a pink gown that when she put it on proved to be quite-”

“My question?” Emma interrupted. She was grateful beyond words for Gerry’s generosity, but Tom’s close scrutiny was making her uncomfortable. Under pretense of examining her new dress he was actually examining her body and, judging from the faint smile playing around his mouth, was evidently enjoying the process. Trevor, she was both relieved and exasperated to note, appeared to be thinking of entirely different matters.

“Yes, your question,” Trevor said. “Feel free to ask anything, although I’m not at all sure I’ll be able to answer.”

“The men who procure these boy-girls are homosexual, are they not?”

The word did not come easily from her mouth. Although she had sometimes read it, this was the first time she had spoken it aloud.

Trevor was relieved when Tom answered first. “Certainly,” he said. “And eager to conceal the fact, which is why they are so vulnerable to blackmail.”

“All right then, if they wish congress with boys, if this is what pleases them, why would they request that the boys should dress as girls?”

“You’re speaking to the issue of motivation, which I always find quite murky,” Tom said with a shrug. “Perhaps they are ashamed of their impulses and if the boys take on the surface appearance of girls, this somehow masks that shame. Or perhaps, at the other end of the spectrum, a creature that has elements of both the male and female adds to their excitement.”

“A girl with a penis,” Geraldine said thoughtfully. “I suppose that if one is a sexual deviant, it truly is the best of both worlds.”

The Bainbridges will be the death of me someday, Trevor thought, trying hard to avoid looking Emma in the eye and instead brushing an imaginary fleck of dust from his pants. One day I shall simply keel over from mortification in the middle of a dinner party and that shall be the end of Trevor Welles.

But Geraldine wasn’t finished. “Was the person you examined a herma- what do you call them, dear?”

“A hermorphodite?” Tom shook his head. “The genitalia was normal. Eleven centimeters flaccid, which is quite within the range. The circumference of the testicles was nothing to brag about, but then again the poor lad had spent significant time in the water. No, I doubt that these boy-girls, as Davy calls them, are born as genetic freaks of nature. If so, they would be too rare to sustain the business of a thriving brothel. Evidently Hammond is taking quite normal boys and masquerading them as girls.”

“But again, I must ask why?” Emma said. “At least some of these men are well-placed in society. They have homes and professions and wives and families, all the accoutrements we associate with a normal life. Assuming that we go with the theory that a boy dressed as a girl served some deeply buried psychological need, why on earth would they risk parading the child about in public? Even accepting your assurance that the illusion was remarkable, it still seems there are a hundred ways their game could have been found out. It’s almost as if they want to be caught.”

“The risk of exposure was undoubtedly part of the thrill,” Gerry said. Her heavy-lidded eyes moved slowly around the circle of far younger people, who looked at her with expectation. If anyone would be able to explain this sort of muddle, it would be her. “The desire to thumb your nose at the upper class can be very strong,” Geraldine continued. “Especially if one is a member of the upper class. If the men who patronize these brothels are homosexuals, then they are extraordinarily aware of the social and legal penalties they would pay for exposure and have most likely struggled to conceal their true natures all their lives. They’re angry. Resentful of the limitations their very privilege has enforced upon them, and perhaps guilty about the innumerable small lies they themselves have told to keep that privilege intact. In light of this, they may have taken a certain rebellious pleasure in dancing or going to the theater with a young girl who wasn’t actually a young girl. I understand this impulse and have indulged it myself on occasion, albeit in a different arena. Pretending to conform while secretly mocking conformity. Propriety on the surface, and scandal underneath.”

“The dress he bought for her was white,” Emma said thoughtfully.

“Who?” Trevor asked. It was the first time he had spoken in several minutes and Emma looked at him with surprise.

“Marianne,” Emma said. “In the shop on the Rue de Monge, Armand purchased a virginal white dress for her, exactly what an upper class young lady would wear for her first foray into society. But Marianne is almost certainly a boy-girl, wouldn’t you say?”

“Good heavens,” Geraldine said. “You’re right, of course, but back in the dress shop when Delacroix told her-”

“Stay away from him,” Trevor said sharply. “Both of you. He may play the part of a respectable businessman, but he’s dangerous. If he and Marianne will be at the party, then so will Isabel Blout, and your assignment is to talk to her. Befriend her as a fellow countrywoman, whatever it takes. Because you were quite astute in your observations back in Manchester, Emma, and I was wrong to brush your instincts aside so quickly. Isabel is no doubt the key to both Armand Delacroix and Charles Hammond.”

“Because they’re the same person,” Emma said.

“Obviously,” said Geraldine.

“Why the devil was I the only one who couldn’t figure that out?” Tom asked irritably.

The sound of the doorbell suddenly ripped through the apartment, a shrill, high cry of a sound that made everyone jump.

“And who could that be?” Tom asked, still frowning. “I don’t think any of us are in the mood for callers. This has already been the longest day in the history of mankind and we still must change into our evening clothes and go to a soiree with Annie Oakley.”

“I’m sorry,” said Geraldine, pausing for a moment until the sounds from the foyer confirmed that the maid had indeed answered the door. “But I believe this particular interruption is my fault. While Emma was napping after our shopping trip, I took it upon myself to pursue an impulse of my own. It occurred to me that we were all quite preoccupied with finding out in whom, if anyone, dear Rayley might have confided. But we had not considered that Patrick Graham must have known something incriminating too, something significant enough that someone declared him too dangerous to live.” She flicked her eyes toward Trevor. “So I went to the foreign press office.”

“The foreign press office? Geraldine, on the boat over I thought I made it quite clear that you were not to –“

“You did make it clear, Trevor, and I promise you I won’t do anything dangerous. We’re talking about a stroll across town in the middle of the day to visit a public place,” Geraldine said. “Do you recall how in Rayley’s letter about climbing the tower he very specifically mentioned that Graham had been distracted the whole time by an American reporter?”

“Aunt Gerry, I don’t think I’ve ever been so impressed with you as I have been in the past twenty-four hours,” Tom said. “Yes, of course, the girl from the New York Times. Graham was trying desperately to charm the young lady, so if he told anyone about his big story, it was most likely her.”

“Indeed, Gerry, good job,” Emma said with equal enthusiasm. “I’m upstairs taking a silly nap and all the while you’re across town being very clever indeed. I can’t recall - Did Rayley name the girl in the letter or are female reporters enough of an anomaly that she was easy to find?”

“She stood by the railing, if you’ll recall,” Geraldine said, “and thus her picture was in all the papers, including the London Star, and she was mentioned in the caption below. She actually has the most marvelous name – Marjorie Mallory - and when I asked the young man at the desk if she was there, he most promptly fetched her.”

“And what did she tell you?” Tom demanded. “You have us all on tetherhooks.”

Trevor nodded too, although he was both surprised and a little distressed that Geraldine, when left to her own devices, had not only managed to locate Armand Delacroix but had also thought of an avenue of pursuit that he had not.

“She didn’t tell me anything, because I didn’t ask,” Geraldine said. “When I had explained who I was and ascertained that yes, Marjorie was in confidence with Patrick Graham, I invited her here to tea. I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds, Trevor, especially on a day when you’re already overwhelmed with information.”

“No need to apologize, for your instincts were spot on the money,” said Trevor. “The maid has undoubtedly shown Miss Mallory to the sitting room, so shall we proceed?”

“She’s only expecting to talk to you, Trevor,” Geraldine said. “You’re the one from Scotland Yard, after all, while the rest of us are mere amateurs.”

“Geraldine,” Trevor said with mock sternness. “It’s bad enough that both you and Emma have outsmarted me. Don’t compound my humiliation with such uncharacteristic false flattery. All right, so I shall interview the young lady on my own. In the meantime, Tom, I need you to find a wire office and send Davy a telegram. We were so absorbed in conversation walking home that we forget to stop and do so.”

Tom nodded. “Precisely what do you want me to ask him?”

“Tell him that the French police have the body of a dead boy-girl in the Paris morgue,” said Trevor. “And that we need him to help gather evidence that Charles Hammond and Armand Delacroix are the same person.”

“What sort of evidence?” Emma asked.

“Each investigation starts with the construction of a timeline,” Trevor said, “telling us where and when, with the hope this will lead us to whom. All of which matter a great deal more at this point than why. More specifically, we need to determine when Hammond was seen in London and Delacroix was seen in Paris. Then we can deduce the specific dates on which he must have traveled and check the channel dockmaster records for either name. Make sure Davy is quite clear on all this, Tom, no matter how many words it takes you to explain. We’ve made such a religion out of holding ourselves to the telegraph standard of twenty words per message that I suspect we’ve risked confusing each other in the interest of economy. Tell him to travel straight to Dover and pick up the dockmaster records himself.”

“But how can we learn the dates Armand was in Paris?” Geraldine asked.

“Your soon-to-be best friend Isabel might be some help with that,” Tom said.

“And there are really only three dates which are absolutely pivotal,” Emma added. “April 11, the date the boy-girl must have been murdered, and April 21, when Graham was murdered, and… What date was the raid on Cleveland Street? Hammond was definitely in London then, if the boy you interviewed from the jailhouse was telling the truth.”

“April 7,” Trevor said. “And I believe Charlie Swincow’s statements were fully accurate. We might also add to the timeline that we know for certain Delacroix was in Paris on April 23, because the Paris police brought him in for questioning in the death of Graham. But he provided an alibi in the form of Isabel.”

“Now she could most certainly have been lying,” Emma said, although she had begun to obligingly scribble the dates on the blank flysheet of the book she was reading. “Unlike Charlie Swincow, Isabel Blout has every motivation to dissemble.”

“Perhaps we should check the dockmaster records in Calais as well,” Tom said. “It seems the key is determining if a passenger named either Charles Hammond or Armand Delacroix traveled from London to Paris sometime between April 7 and April 11.”

“Will the French port authorities give us that information?” Emma asked. “Even if Trevor says he’s from Scotland Yard?”

“Probably not, but they’ll certainly turn the ledgers over to Rubois,” Trevor said. “With Davy checking documentation from Dover and us from Calais, we should be able to procure proof that the man crossed the channel between those two pivotal dates by tomorrow night. It’s not enough evidence to convict, but that’s a French problem. All we have to do is come up with enough evidence to bring him in. If we can arrest him and interrogate him, I have no doubt this will lead us to Rayley.” Trevor looked reassuringly around the circle and then pushed to his feet. “And as for now, wish me luck,” he said. “I’m off to interview the marvelous Marjorie Mallory.”

4: 40 PM



Miss Mallory had been shown, as predicted, to the smaller parlor where she sat slumped dispiritedly on a blue silk divan. When Trevor entered and introduced himself, she gave a small nod, but did not speak.

The girl was attractive, but in a most specific way, a style and manner Trevor had come to associate with young women who held extreme political views. Her hair was cropped short, but it was also wavy and blonde. Freed from the natural burden of its weight, it twined around her ears in ringlets, a veritable halo of curls. She was wearing what appeared to be a feminine version of a man’s business suit: A crisp white shirt, trim gray vest, and a narrow skirt made out of tweed. The overall effect was not displeasing.

But the most notable thing about her was that she was very pale.

Trevor extended a hand and they touched palms as he thanked her for coming. He considered sitting down in the chair opposite hers. He didn’t wish for their meeting to seem like an interrogation, but he wanted to be situated where he could observe everything about the girl. Their brief handshake had confirmed that Miss Mallory was not only pale but trembling, so perhaps it would be best to provide her with some sort of refreshment before they began. He had the impression that she was on the verge of a faint, but that if she gave into such frailty, she would never forgive herself.

“May I offer you tea?” he asked.

The girl winced. “Do you have something more…A glass of wine, perhaps?”

Trevor was shocked. A woman taking wine with no meal and so early in the day? But of course she was American, her odd flat accent reminding him of that within a mere nine words, and there was no telling how they did such things over there. He nodded and walked back to wrench open the door into the foyer where he found, not entirely to his surprise, Geraldine waiting with wide expectant eyes.

“I sent Claire to the market,” Geraldine whispered. “She behaves as if she doesn’t understand what we say, but you never know. It seems that the British always claim to speak French when they really don’t, and that the French always claim they don’t speak English when they really do. For all we know that sinister little slip of a maid is a spy, and I promised Miss Mallory absolute discretion. Does she want tea?”

“She wants wine.”

Geraldine arched an eyebrow. “She struck me as having a rather anxious disposition.”

“She does indeed.”

“Wine for you as well?”

Trevor shook his head. “No, but you might consider a small sip for yourself.”

Geraldine bustled off on her mission and Trevor returned to the sitting room. Perhaps in light of the girl’s obvious distress, positioning himself directly opposite her would be too confrontational. He smiled as he walked towards her - the smile was not returned – and then opted to sit beside her on the small divan, as if this were merely a friendly visit. Unfortunately he had never before lowered his considerable bulk to this particular piece of furniture and was unaware that the divan was constructed in such a manner that he would immediately roll toward the girl. He grasped the armrest just in time to avoid touching her, a mishap which likely would have sent her shrieking from the room.

“Rayley wrote of meeting you on the fateful morning that you all climbed the tower,” Trevor began, looking over his shoulder as he gamely continuing to clutch the armrest with both hands. “He was of the impression that Patrick Graham was determined to befriend you.”

Marjorie nodded. “Graham came to see me that afternoon. Which would have also been, I suppose, two days before he died.”

“A social call?”

A dismissive toss of the head, sending her wispy curls bouncing. “All the foreign reporters keep a desk at the press office. Graham dropped by mine, sat himself down on the edge of it without invitation, and proceeded to tell me a rather fantastical story. At the time I thought he was only boasting, trying to impress me. He was the type who…you know...whenever he was with women…”

“I believe I understand,” said Trevor, still struggling to contain himself and avoid pressing her thigh against his. “Rayley’s description of the man was most through. So what did Graham tell you?”

“That the Englishmen who are giving such great sums of money to the French Exposition are not doing so willingly. They are being blackmailed by a man named Armand Delacroix.”

Trevor rolled back in his seat, no longer caring if this meant his body touched that of the girl’s. He was both surprised and not surprised at this rapid confirmation of his theory, but before he could ask Marjorie anything else, Geraldine entered with a glass of white wine on a tray. She lowered the tray to Marjorie, who took the glass, drained it in a single gulp, and returned it to the tray with a delicate shudder.

“Another?” Geraldine innocently asked. Marjorie wiped her mouth with her fingertips while Trevor nodded on her behalf.

“And did he tell you why they were being blackmailed?” Trevor asked, when Geraldine had again left the room.

“Graham claimed he didn’t know. At least not yet. But he said he was determined to find out and then, on Monday, when I heard his body had been pulled from the river…” Marjorie leaned back too, blinking her eyes rapidly. “I’m not a coward, Detective.”

“Of course not,” Trevor said soothingly, although he had no idea why she should feel compelled to make this particular declaration. American women were certainly a flock of odd ducks.

“I’m not a coward,” Marjorie repeated, but her voice was lower this time, as if she were speaking to herself and not to him. “I asked a few questions around the press room and the first thing I learned was that Armand Delacroix is married to Isabel Delacroix, the other woman who had come along on the tower ascent. So what was I left to conclude but that Graham and Isabel must have shared some sort of conversation on that, just as you say, fateful morning. Perhaps he had slipped somehow and told her more than he’d intended. Or, who knows, for the man was impulsive, especially when women were around, perhaps he had directly confronted her with his knowledge that her husband was a blackmailer. But he must have said something to her that she repeated to Armand, for now Graham was dead, tossed in the Seine like a load of trash.”

“Trash?”

She paused to think. “Rubbish.”

“Ah. Yes.”

She was blinking tears again. “I wired my editor but he told me to leave it alone. Said this sort of business isn’t my affair, and it’s not what our audience in New York wants to read. Said I’ve been sent to Paris to write about fashion and art and architecture and wonderful new inventions. It’s my job, he wires back, to extol the wonders of the Exhibition, to praise the city of light.”

“City of light?”

“That’s what they call Paris,” Marjorie said. “That’s what they want all of us call it. God knows they’ve made that plain enough.” She gave a bitter little laugh. “We’ve been indoctrinated at every turn that our function is to write about parties and pastries and the new republic, not some squalid tale of bodies floating down the Seine.” She looked Trevor directly in the eyes, for the first time since they had met. “Because it must be something very dark, don’t you think? Delacroix is apparently blackmailing quite a few men and for significant sums of money. So whatever he knows about them has to be absolutely dreadful. I remember Graham sitting there on the corner of my desk saying, ‘It must be damning information, Marjorie. Damning indeed.’”

“You didn’t by any chance tell this story to Rayley Abrams, did you?”

Geraldine was back with the wine. She handed the glass directly to Marjorie this time and then retreated, pausing at the door to raise her eyebrows at Trevor. But when he pointedly ignored her mute question, she gave an audible sigh and slipped back into the hall.

Marjorie took a sizable sip and gazed thoughtfully into the distance. “I didn’t get the opportunity. After I heard that they’d found Graham’s body, I started thinking. Of all the people who went up the tower that morning, everyone was a reporter, a photographer, or an employee of the Otis Elevator company. Everyone except two, that is – your friend Detective Abrams and Isabel Delacroix.”

“Rayley introduced himself to the group as a detective?” Trevor asked with surprise.

Marjorie gave him a small smile, genuine this time. “Of course not. He was trying to avoid drawing attention, so in an elevator crammed full of braggarts and busybodies his very modesty singled him out. We pride ourselves on getting the story, Detective Welles, so I venture that by the time the elevator had risen to the base of the tower, every reporter in it had silently vowed to discover the true identity of Rayley Abrams.” Now she openly chuckled. “The poor man would have been far less intriguing if he had donned a red dance dress and put feathers in his hair. I knew he was Scotland Yard by noon and I daresay all the others did as well.”

Marjorie took another sip of wine, and then another. “And Detective Abrams knew all about Isabel Delacroix, didn’t he? That was why he was with us in the first place, because he was following her. He was aware of her connections, and that her husband Armand was practicing extortion against a circle of important British men. But tell me this. Had he discovered more than Patrick Graham? Did Abrams know exactly what sort of dirt Armand had dug up on the British?”

Trevor hesitated. It was trivial in light of all that had happened, but for some reason he was unwilling to publically confess that the reporter had learned more than the detective. “My dear Miss Mallory,” he said. “I have no idea the extent of what Detective Abrams knew or suspected. My team and I were in London when the things you have described transpired and our communications with Rayley were sporadic and incomplete.”

The wine must have finally begun to work its effects on Marjorie Mallory’s system, for this time she made no effort to hold back the tears which sprang to her eyes. “I went to the police and asked for him,” she said, her voice a hiccuping whisper. “Knew I should tell him what Graham had told me just in case…Just in case he somehow didn’t know. But they said he wasn’t in that day. They told me that they had no idea where he’d gone or when he’d be back.”

“And that news must have frightened you badly,” Trevor said with sympathy. She was trembling again and he considered taking her hand.

“Detective Abrams was so kind to me that day we went up, all of us crammed in that horrid loud elevator,” Marjorie said, letting her head loll back a bit. “He even tried to shield me from Patrick Graham. But then, when the doors finally opened, it was like a scene from a fairy tale, Detective Welles, nothing but air and excitement, as if we all really had found the city of light. Everyone was taking my picture. We were laughing. I would never have believed that, within days, three of us would be gone.”

“Three of you? I know Graham is dead and Abrams is missing –“

Her head snapped up with surprise. “So you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Isabel Delacroix has disappeared from Paris. No one claims to have seen her since the same night that Detective Abrams vanished. One of the rumors in the press corps office is that Abrams gave her a police escort back to London, personally ensuring her passage across the channel.”

“I can assure you that rumor isn’t true,” said Trevor.

“And another is that she found her way back to London on her own.”

“Possible,” conceded Trevor, mentally making a note that they should look for Isabel’s name as well as Armand’s in the dockmaster rosters. “But it seems to me more plausible that she is simply hiding here in Paris. She’s wealthy, is she not? That always helps.”

Marjorie shrugged. “She’s married to a wealthy man, which is a bit different. Her bills may be promptly paid, but that doesn’t mean she has cash in pocket. Women live…we live differently than you do, Detective Welles. For even when we seem to be firmly ensconced in the lap of luxury, there is always the knowledge that this lap can drop out from under us the very instant a man decides to stand up and leave.”

Trevor was slightly startled by the cynicism of this statement, even more shocked than by the rapid disappearance of the wine in the girl’s glass. “But Isabel has connections with wealthy people, at least, friends to whom she could turn. There are any number of places where she might take refuge.”

“I suppose,” Marjorie conceded. “No one has laid odds on that notion yet. I hope it won’t shock you to learn that newspaper reporters bet on the outcome of stories. We truly are the pack of hyenas that everyone proclaims us to be.”

“I’m not shocked,” Trevor said. “Detectives do the same thing.”

“Really? That must be how you won your handsome suit.”

They sat for a minute in awkward silence while Trevor tried to decide if she was flirting with him or if, more likely, she was merely tipsy.

“And the third theory of what has become of Rayley and Isabel?” Trevor finally asked. “It seems such rumors always come in counts of three.”

Marjorie blinked rapidly and drained her glass of wine.

“Indeed,” said Trevor.

5:05 PM



Emma paced on the sidewalk outside the apartment, waiting for Tom. It was taking him a long time to simply send a telegram and when she finally saw him making his way down the street it was clear he had stopped off for a drink, or more likely two. It was scarcely her job to keep count of how much alcohol Tom consumed in the course of a day, but it most certainly was a great deal, and even more disturbing than the volume was his tendency to try and hide it. He would often do precisely this – slip out on some errand, be gone longer than anticipated, and return slightly blurred and a half-beat behind his normally brisk conversational pace. For a man as bright as Tom, a half-beat behind was still faster than most, so he was generally able to conceal his afternoon trips to the pub. Emma doubted if anyone other than her had ever noticed.

Now he was smiling, raising one finger to his lips as he approached her, in a gesture of childish secrecy.

“And why is my fair Emma out waiting for me here in the street?” he asked. “Do you have some sort of confidence to share? Or are you simply wishing for a few private moments with your fiancé before we make our first public appearance as a betrothed couple?”

“Oh yes, yes that,” Emma said distractedly. It had been such a bizarre day that she had entirely forgotten that this evening she would be expected to don her flesh-colored gown and convince a room full of strangers that she was the fiancé of a well-to-do doctor.

“I do want to ask you something,” she went on. “Something I’m not prepared to say in front of Trevor. He’s too…protective, I suppose. I doubt he will ever consider me a full member of the team.”

Tom nodded slowly and leaned against the filigreed gate. “He means well, but I understand what you’re saying. Isn’t it funny how the great champion of modern forensics has turned out to be such an old-fashioned man at heart? I take it that you have some theory you wish to put forward, but that you think might be better if it comes from me.”

“Actually I have a theory that I want you to help me test.”

At this point they saw Claire resentfully trudging toward them with a sack from the market.

“Ah, Claire,” Tom said as she neared, and he proceeded to tell her that if a telegram should come for him that evening that she should send it on immediately to the home of Madame Seaver.

“Your French is perfectly fine,” Emma said, when Claire had nodded and gone up the steps to the front door. “The Tuesday Night Murder Games Club doesn’t really need me here at all.”

“This sort of self pity isn’t like you,” Tom said, taking her arm and leading her away from the gate. “You’re an entirely vital member of the team, as you know full well.” He looked at her closely. “What’s really on your mind? Will your smart new navy dress survive a sit on the steps, do you think? Or should we stroll while we talk?”

Emma trembled for a second, partly from her agitation, and partly from the fact that Tom was standing so close. Even when mildly intoxicated, he still saw her more clearly than anyone else. He did not remember the night they had collapsed into each other’s arms last fall and would most likely never remember it, at least not consciously. But on some deeper level there was a connection between the two of them that had been forged during their singular evening as lovers, a sort of instinctive understanding that defied rational analysis.

“There’s one fact that everyone knows, everyone agrees upon,” said Emma, making a concerted effort to pull her attention back to the subject at hand. “That both the unidentified body of the boy-girl and the body of Graham were found at approximately the same point along the Seine and that neither had been in the water long. So it would make sense that they were both released from the same place as well, would it not?”

“Here,” said Tom. “Sit.” He took off his jacket and spread it across the third marble step. Emma, noting that the fashionably thin Parisian skirt severely inhibited her movement, slowly lowered herself down with a swiveling moment while Tom carelessly plopped beside her. “There’s a bridge very close to where the bodies were found,” Tom said. “The assumption has always been that this was where they must have entered the water.”

“Yes, I know, but remember what Trevor says about assumptions,” Emma said. “Besides, those theories originated when the first body was discovered. At that point the authorities believed they were dealing with a suicide, ergo someone who had jumped, so of course the police would focus their attention on the most likely place that a suicide would choose, which is a bridge. But now that the boy-girl and Graham as well, have been deemed the victims of murder, it seems it is time to revisit the original assumption.”

“Quite so,” Tom said, beginning to see her point. “If you had murdered someone, or had rendered them unconscious by chloroform, you would hardly need to throw them from a bridge. In fact, given the amount of foot traffic the average city bridge sustains, that would be the least sensible way to dispose of their body. More likely you would simply carry them to the riverbank and put them in the water.”

“The more I’ve thought about it,” Emma said with a nod, “the more convinced I’ve become that the important part of the puzzle isn’t where the bodies came out of the river, but rather where they went in. What do the riverbanks of the Seine look like?”

“I don’t know,” Tom admitted. “I’ve crossed the river by bridge before, but never really bothered to look down at the banks. The Seine isn’t as wide as the Thames, especially not in the pass where the bodies were found, so I assume the banks are not as steep.” He nodded at Emma. “We shall go first thing tomorrow morning and take a look.”

“I think we should go tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“I told you, I have a theory.”

“I don’t like the sound of that at all, Emma. I know you don’t think Trevor treats you like a fellow, but we simply cannot go off on our own testing theories by the light of the moon. Please don’t jerk your chin at me like that.”

“How much time do you think we have? It’s a good sign that Rayley is still merely missing, I’ll concede. Whoever killed the boy-girl and Graham clearly wanted them to be found as quickly as possible to send some sort of message. A message to the men being blackmailed or perhaps even to the French police. So the very fact that we haven’t found Rayley’s body suggests he is still alive and being held captive somewhere.”

“Trevor believes it is Delacroix.”

“I didn’t say he was being held by someone, I said he was being held somewhere,” Emma said sharply. “Obviously it’s Delacroix or someone connected to him, but it seems to me that arresting Delacroix may be our longest route to the truth.”

“Right now he’s all we have.”

“Right now you’re correct, which is why I’m suggesting we consider the case from a different angle. Trevor will be Trevor and he will follow the slow and steady steps of justice, knowing that if he collects enough evidence against Delacroix he will ultimately find Rayley. But if he hesitates too long what he may find instead is Rayley’s body.”

“Trevor is hardly some plodding bureaucrat, Emma,” Tom said. “We’ve been in Paris less than twenty-four hours and the investigation is moving at a furiously rapid pace.”

“I doubt it seems that way to Rayley Abrams.”

She was probably right about that. “If you don’t think our best course is collecting enough evidence to arrest Armand Delacroix,” said Tom, “what would you suggest?”

“That we try and determine where the two bodies were put into the river.” She leaned back against the step and slowly exhaled. “Do you remember when Trevor was investigating the Ripper case and he would say that it didn’t matter why Jack killed, that it only mattered how?”

Tom nodded cautiously. Emma rarely mentioned the Ripper case.

“And remember how just a minute ago he said that the who, what, and where is more important than the why?”

Tom nodded again.

“All I’m suggesting is that we further prioritize the questions and focus our attention on where Rayley is being held, rather than on who is holding him,” she said. “Releasing him from any present danger is the most important thing and only then should we worry about building a case against Delacroix.”

“But of course finding Rayley is our top priority, Emma,” Tom said, also rolling back against the step and staring out into the street. “No one has forgotten that. Certainly not Trevor.” Tom was usually the passionate one in any discussion and it rarely fell to him to play the voice of reason. He wasn’t sure he liked it. Emma was flushed and breathless, and it seemed that everything he had said so far had only had the effect of making her more upset. For a moment Tom pondered the possibility that Emma’s desire to prove her worth to Trevor was as much a part of her motivation as finding Rayley, but then he dismissed it. More likely the fact that her sister had been violently slain was the true source of her anxiety. She couldn’t help but see everything from the point of view of the victim.

When he turned back, Emma was looking at him, squarely in the eye. “Isn’t there a good chance Delacroix has some sort of base of operations near the river and that Rayley is being held there?”

“Of course there’s a chance, although I suspect ‘base of operations’ is far too grand of a term. There’s no evidence that Delacroix has dozens of minions at his dispatch,” Tom said. He was well aware that he was quoting precisely the same lecture Trevor had given him earlier. “He’s more likely just your standard reprehensible brothel owner who is preying on both his clients and his employees. Besides, the Seine is a long river that runs through the heart of a large city. I would imagine it’s much as it is along the Thames. Small hovels of homes, people crammed together in rooms, ale houses and brothels catering to the men who work the docks. Do you suggest we go door to door through the endless squalor, knocking people up and asking if any of them might have seen a detective from Scotland Yard?”

“No. I suggest we time how long it takes a body to float down the Seine.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“You examined the bodies. The boy-girl may have been embalmed and frozen and thus not a good test case, but Graham was pristine, was he not? And you saw the original coroner’s notes?”

“You know I did. I told you so upstairs.”

“How long was the official estimation of the amount of time Graham was in the water?”

“It’s impossible to be certain in these matters. It would be no more than an educated guess.”

“Very well. You’re educated. What’s your guess?”

“Thirty minutes, more or less,” Tom said uneasily. He couldn’t follow where she was going with all this at all, but it was most certainly nowhere good. When it came to the forensics unit, he and Emma were mere volunteers. Emma did not go daily into Scotland Yard as Tom did and had thus never stood witness to how hard Trevor had to fight for his unit’s mere survival or how careful he was to treat his volunteers with as much respect as his employees. Did Trevor view Emma precisely as he did the men? Certainly not, but he had been eminently fair to both her and to Tom, who was, after all, still merely in school. When Trevor learned they had gone outside his authority to run forensics experiments on their own, he would rightfully demand both their heads on a platter.

“All right then,” Emma said, unfazed by his hesitation. “So we put forth an experiment to determine how far a body the size of Graham’s and one the size of the boy-girl’s would drift in the Seine in thirty minutes. Once we’ve determined this, we go upriver that distance and look for the most likely place where they might have been put in. It seems supremely logical to me. The Seine isn’t a tidal river so there should be few variables in water velocity and it hasn’t rained all week, which is fortunate, is it not?”

Tom was shaking his head. Tidal rivers? Water velocity? Where the devil had she learned such terms? “Tomorrow I promise you I shall ask Rubois if the police have considered–“

She sat up abruptly from where she had been leaning against the marble step. “No! Rubois can’t know. Neither can Trevor. At least not until we’ve done our preliminary experiments and I see if my theory has a sliver of a chance of working. Otherwise Trevor shall conclude I’m even more useless in an investigation than he presently thinks, and I shall spend the rest of my life locked in an airless room transcribing documents.”

The words “preliminary experiments” were enough to strike terror in Tom’s heart. He knew that Emma could be intense to the point of obsession, but she surely wasn’t suggesting that they break into the morgue, was she? In her present state of mind it seemed possible.

What sort of experiments?”he asked cautiously. “We don’t have access to a body.”

“It seems to me that we have access to two perfectly fine bodies, right here.”

It took him a moment to realize what she meant.

“Emma,” Tom finally said sternly. “You must clear your mind of this plan at once. Tonight you and I are going to focus on collecting information about Armand Delacroix and Isabel Blout, just as Trevor has instructed us to do. Tomorrow I promise that you and I shall walk the banks of the Seine looking for this – what did you call it? – this base of operations. And I shall ask Rubois if the French have given any thought to the possibility the bodies were not thrown off the nearest bridge but rather put into the river somewhere upstream. For that part of your theory does indeed make sense. As for the rest of it…absolutely not. We shall in this instant rise to our feet and go upstairs and dress in our fine new clothes and attend our first French dinner party. And once we are there you shall endeavor to behave as the deliriously happy fiancé of the most wonderful man in Europe, not as a madwoman about to throw herself into the Seine. I don’t wish to be querulous, but that, my dear, is that.”

“You said the boy-girl was very thin. How big was Graham?”

“Whyever would you ask?”

“About your size, would you say?”

Tom turned his eyes and palms heavenward in an appeal for divine help. “He was a little heavier than me, I should guess. And yes, I’ll spare you the trouble of further interrogation. The boy-girl might have had a similar weight to yours. But it matters not at all because tonight we are going to the Madame Seaver’s soiree, Emma, precisely as planned.”

“Of course, of course,” she said. “I never suggested otherwise. Experiments of this nature are best done very late to avoid attracting the attention of the unsavory sorts who always seem to collect by rivers. Who knows how long it takes them to tumble into slumber. We should wait until two or three, I’d imagine.”

“This isn’t going to happen, Emma. Trevor would forbid it and for once I believe Aunt Geraldine would second him.”

“Then it’s fortunate they’re both such sound sleepers. Did you hear them last night? Their snores all but harmonized. Tom, really, it’s nothing more than one of our Tuesday Night Murder Games. An experiment on how swiftly masses of different weights are carried down a slow-moving river. Think of it that way and you’ll see my point at once.”

“I’m not going to think of it at all. I’m not coming with you. We would be, as Aunt Gerry says, both insane and in the Seine.”

“Oh, bother, of course you’re coming,” Emma said. “As long as we stay together, what could go wrong?”