London (10 page)

Georgie answered right away. “Yes, of course. He shot a reportage piece on Johnny recently. But why did he give you that photo? Do you know him well?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “He thought I might find it interesting. He gave it to me before he was taken to the hospital on Sunday…after he was mugged.”

“Oh no,” she said as she stood up abruptly. Then, with her back to me, she looked out the large window to the right of her desk. Without a moment's hesitation I reached for the “something” on her desk that I'd noticed a few minutes earlier: her address book. “Where did it happen?” she continued. Her voice sounded constricted, as if she was having trouble getting the words out.

I opened the address book quickly.
T
,
U
,
V
,
W
…
W
…Wimple. There it was! Jane Wimple. “On the Embankment near Westminster Bridge,” I said. “I thought you might know… Word tends to travel fast in the fashion world.”

Jane Wimple, 16 St. Leonard's Terrace, Chelsea. There it was! And I knew the street. I memorized the address and put the book back on Georgie's desk just as she turned around.

“I haven't heard a word,” she said, looking right at me. “Is he all right?”

I nodded and tried to look innocent. “Sort of. He suffered a head injury. But they're hoping he'll be out of the hospital by the beginning of next week.” I watched her for a moment before I continued. “I thought you might be able to tell me something about the photo, like where it was taken.”

She looked at me but didn't say a word.

“Or perhaps how Gavin would have gotten hold of it.”

Still she said nothing, but she started clicking her pen again. After a moment she said, her voice taut, “Why are you showing me this photo, Axelle?”

I didn't want to tell Georgie about the stick, so I kept my answer vague. “Curiosity. I'm assuming it's a personal family photo…so how did Gavin get hold of it?”

Still she said nothing, so I pushed further. “He seemed to think it was important. I thought that you might be able to tell me why.”

Georgie shrugged her shoulders. “You'll have to ask him when he gets out of the hospital. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful.”

She looked at her watch and said, “I'm afraid I have to get going, Axelle. I have an appointment in ten minutes. But it was lovely to meet you, and thank you for showing me the photo.”

Mega-Mansion and Megastar

Sebastian saw me first. He was waiting on the westbound platform of the Hammersmith & City line. I'd sent him a message as soon as I'd finished at the Vane offices, and since he wasn't too far from where I was in Marylebone, we agreed to meet at Baker Street station. “No surprise seeing you here, Holmes,” he said, smiling as he jumped into my car, sat next to me, and gave me a quick kiss.

“Very funny, Watson,” I said. Sebastian was referring to the fact that Sherlock Holmes had supposedly lived on Baker Street.

We sat side by side, and as the train left the station, Sebastian quietly fleshed out the information he'd given me earlier.

“Well done, Watson. You seem to have good sources no matter what city we're in,” I whispered as I thought of how he'd tracked down vital information in New York while working there on our last case.

He shrugged his broad shoulders and turned to smile at me. “If I'm going to be a crime reporter, it's in my interest to find good sources. Then again, I've been learning the tricks of the trade since I was knee high.” As the son of the Chief Inspector of Paris, he certainly had a point.

“And you'd be surprised,” he continued, suddenly putting on a thick French accent, “'ow much it 'elps to be a foreigner in your country.”

In fact, Sebastian's English was excellent. His accent was so slight that it was barely discernible.

“People get very tired very quickly of heavy accents,” he explained. “All I have to do is repeat myself slowly a couple of times, and they lose their patience and end up telling me everything I want to know as quickly as they can just to get rid of me. Works every time.” He smiled.

I brought Sebastian up to date on all the new information I had—the invitation to the La Lune party at Kensington Gardens and what I found out in my meetings with Caro and Georgie. I also told him about Tallulah's call. “It's proof that Gavin is still in terrible danger. We need to move faster.”

“It's just like you said last night. Someone wants to silence him for good. Poor Gavin,” said Sebastian, suddenly looking serious.

“I know,” I said. “We've got to work fast.”

I pulled my notebook out and opened it for Sebastian to see. “There's this too,” I said.

“Jane Wimple's address? How'd you get that?”

“Ah, Watson, you're not the only one with good sources.”

But Sebastian didn't buy it. He leaned back and narrowed his eyes at me. “That didn't come from ‘a source.' No, no, no,” he teased. “My gut tells me, dear Holmes, that you
took
that information. Nobody gave it to you, did they?”

I didn't say anything.

“I knew it! You even made a point of saying that Georgie's desk was messy. You were practically bragging. That's where you got it, isn't it? I bet you sneaked a look in her address book, didn't you?”

“Well, I can't help it if she just leaves things lying around. And anyway, what's the big difference between your tactics and mine?”

“Ah! Well, my tactic is called
sourcing
—and it requires finesse. Your tactic, on the other hand, is simply…stealing.”

“Trust me, it took a lot of finesse to get that information, considering Georgie had her eyes glued to me for nearly our entire meeting!” I stuck my tongue out at Sebastian and he laughed.

“So where do you want to start?” he said.

“Well, I thought we could take a look at Dawson Place. It's literally a ten-minute walk from home. We can pick up Halley and grab a bite to eat on our way there. We should have just enough time before I go for my
Teen Chic
booking. Did you manage to trace the housekeeper or handyman, by the way?”

“No. My search dead-ended.”

“No problem. I might know someone who can help, but let's check out the house first.”

Then Sebastian reminded me of his plan to visit the hospital while I was at my booking. “I would say it's urgent now. With a bit of luck, maybe I can unearth some nugget of information to add to what we have.”

I agreed.

“But going to the hospital,” Sebastian explained, “means that I won't have time to get to the Thames—if we have to be at the La Lune party in the early evening. What do you want to do?”

“Hmm…well, I definitely need to see the river at low tide.”

Sebastian looked into his jacket pocket and pulled a folded piece of paper from his notebook. “This is the timetable,” he said as he studied the columns of tiny numbers. “The tide will be low again at…22:51. Could we go then? After the party?”

I nodded. “Perfect, Watson. And maybe we can stop by Jane Wimple's house on the way there. It's on the way to Westminster from Kensington Gardens.”

“So if we leave Belle's by around nine p.m. and walk to Notting Hill Gate Tube station,” he said, studying the Tube map just to the left of the train door. “Stop by Jane Wimple's…”

“That would be Sloane Square.”

“And then continue to Westminster, we can get to the river with time to spare. Which reminds me—I was thinking about a boat trip.” Sebastian pulled his phone out and looked something up. “The last boats going up and down the Thames leave at eleven p.m. It could be romantic.”

“‘It
could
be romantic' is very different from ‘It
will
be romantic,' you know.”

“I like your attitude, Holmes. You keep me on my toes.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thank you, Watson.”

“Any time.”

I didn't say anything, but Sebastian was looking at me.

“What?” I finally asked.

“Aren't you going to tell me what you like about me?”

He looked seriously cute, but I wasn't about to get off course. “I'm afraid you'll have to wait, Watson,” I said, smiling. “In case you've forgotten, we have a case to solve—and that's what we should be discussing now. Speaking of which, I'll have to think of something to tell my mom—about why I'm out late, I mean—something that won't make her suspicious. Westminster isn't exactly in my neighborhood, plus she doesn't like me staying out late on a weeknight.”

“Blame it on me,” Sebastian said. “Tell her that I'd like to do some sightseeing—London at night by boat.”

I nodded. “Okay. Although, just so you know, if I get home too late, my mom will definitely send Scotland Yard after us.” I smiled.

“By the way,” Sebastian said a minute later, “I did find out a bit about Jane Wimple and Caro Moretti.” He pulled out his notebook and read from it. “According to
Vogue
magazine, Jane has been a major influence on Johnny's life. She used to work for”—Sebastian stopped to look through his notes—“ah, yes, Ossie Clark. She met Clarissa Vane there, and after they got to know each other, Jane started working for the Vanes as a private secretary.

“Later, apparently after Johnny and Julian were born, she became more of a nanny. I'm not sure why she left Ossie Clark's design studio though. She's never married or had children, and according to another recent
Vogue
article, she remains very much involved in Johnny's life. It sounds like they're still really close.”

That, I thought, jibed with what Ellie had told me the previous day. “Good work, Watson. And what about Caro Moretti?”

“Well…” I watched as he flipped through his notebook. “When her sister died, she became Johnny and Georgie Vane's legal guardian. Incidentally, she was already living with them—Clarissa and the kids, I mean—and had been since James Vane died.”

Hmm…so why hadn't Caro admitted to me earlier that she knew the boys in the photo?

“You know what, Holmes?” Sebastian suddenly asked as our train pulled into Royal Oak station. “It feels quite nice to be able to tell you something you don't already know—especially on your home turf.” He was grinning broadly.

“Yeah, well, don't get too excited, Watson. It might be a while before you get another chance,” I teased back. Then we jumped off the train and headed for home.

On the way to my house I quickly ran my eyes over my TBLI list and found something I'd forgotten to ask Tallulah: did she know where Gavin had found the old photo of Johnny and Julian Vane? I reached for my phone and called her to ask just that.

“To be honest, I don't know for certain,” she explained, “but a few days after he'd done the shoot at Johnny Vane's, an unmarked envelope was slipped under the street door of our apartment building. Gavin's name was on it, but nothing else. I remember giving it to him and him disappearing with it. When I asked him later what had been in the envelope, he said, ‘It's just something I've been asked to look into.'

“Again, I can't be certain it was that photo, and Gavin does get lots of mail and packets and stuff. I suppose that's why I didn't think the envelope was important. I'd never have thought about it if you hadn't asked. I'm just guessing that's where the ‘old photo' came from. That probably doesn't help you much, but it's the best I can do, I'm afraid.”

On the contrary
, I thought,
it does help…

“How can knowing—or rather
believing
—that Gavin was sent the photo possibly help?” Sebastian asked when I told him what Tallulah had said.

Having picked up Halley (and made yet another copy of the old photo), we were now on trendy Westbourne Grove, the two of us eating warm paninis we'd ordered from the takeout place on the corner. We were a short walk from Dawson Place. “Well, I'm just kicking ideas around, but I have to start somewhere…”

“Go ahead.”

“The fact that the photo was delivered anonymously has given me an idea,” I answered. “Rather than simply stumbling across something on his own, maybe Gavin was helped or maybe even prompted into uncovering something.”

“By whom?”

“Maybe someone who's frightened or, less possibly, has a score to settle.”

“Why less possibly?”

“Because if what's happened to Gavin was caused by a forty-year-old dirty secret, someone has waited a very long time to settle that score. Furthermore, asking someone else to do your dirty work is an oddly subtle way to get even. I mean, isn't the whole point of revenge that your intended victim knows that
you're
the one bringing grief upon them? Think about it. All the best retaliation leaves the victim in no doubt as to who's gotten even. Sending a photo anonymously on the other hand—”

“How do you know the sender didn't identify themselves? There might have been a note with the photo.”

“Remember: it was an unmarked envelope quietly slipped under the door, which suggests to me that even if there was a note inside—and there probably was
something
confirming the boys' identity—it wasn't signed. If they'd been willing to sign it, what would be the point of secretly hand delivering it?”

“Ah, I see.”

“Which reminds me…” I took my phone out and quickly sent Tallulah a message asking if she knew where the photo Gavin had received was, or if she'd come across a note anywhere that might have been sent with it.

She answered back right away:

No. Nothing, sorry.

Hmm…I wondered briefly if the person who'd broken into her flat had perhaps come across the note and taken it.

“Anyway,” I continued as I put my phone away, “this anonymity—this secrecy—seems a very timid approach, which leads me back to my first theory. I think someone is frightened. Perhaps they sent Gavin the photo hoping he'd help.”

“Help?” Sebastian laughed. “They must be desperate if they need to randomly ask a young fashion photographer to sift through the past for them.”

“Well, they probably are desperate.”

“How do you mean?”

“When you were researching today, you didn't find many reports that mentioned Johnny and Georgia Vane's childhood, did you? Or Caro Moretti's connection to them? Or much about Jane Wimple either? And certainly no photos?”

“True—I didn't dig up much about their past. But maybe they've always been discreet because of the tragedies. They're not exactly the sort of thing you want to shout about.”

“I know and I agree, but that would make it even more likely that the photo came from one of the Vanes or someone who was close to them at that time—their nanny or guardian, for instance.”

“Good point. And…?”

“So leaving aside the possibility that some unknown troublemaker is involved for the moment, I think it highly likely that one of them sent the photo to Gavin.”

“Okay. But if it was one of those four, what was their motive for sending the photo?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Again, I can only guess…but if I wanted to be dramatic with my theories—”

“A touch of drama never hurt anyone, Holmes.”

I cleared my throat loudly. “As I was saying, Watson, if I want to kick flamboyant ideas around, I'd say maybe one of them knows something—a secret, a lie, some cover-up concerning the family. And maybe knowing this—even after all these years—makes them very frightened.”

“But why?”

“Well, look at what happened to Gavin.”

“Another good point, Holmes.”

“So if I continue with my dramatic theory, sending this particular photo of Johnny and Julian confirms my earlier suggestion that there was something suspicious about the drowning.”

“Okay…”

“So let's suppose that having been tipped off by the photo, Gavin did indeed discover that something odd had gone on by the Thames the day Julian drowned. And let's also say that one of the four people mentioned—Johnny, Georgia, Caro, or Jane Wimple—was Gavin's attacker. And that perhaps this person has also found out how
and with whose help
Gavin uncovered his knowledge. Remember, my theory also presumes that the photo was sent to Gavin by one of those four people because they would have access to old family photos.”