“I have already formulated a plan. Let’s go to her house at once.”
I instructed Cécile’s driver to leave us off in the rue Saint-Antoine, so that we might walk the last block to place des Vosges. I had no intention of descending upon Estella’s house, instead wanting to watch, hidden from view by a well-placed tree, to see what sort of activity was afoot. Not a single visitor came in or out of the house. No curtain so much as fluttered. A little before eleven o’clock, a maid opened the door, crossed the threshold, and swept the arcaded entranceway.
“Now I am certain something is amiss,” Cécile said. “No one has their maids sweeping out front at this time of the day. That should be finished before seven in the morning. If Estella were in residence, she would tolerate nothing less.”
“Do you think she would care quite so violently?”
“My dear Kallista, there are some standards so basic one could not ignore them and still consider oneself French.”
Who was I to argue with this sort of reasoning? Cécile did raise a valid objection. No one wanted her stoop to be swept in the middle of the day; it should be done early, to remove whatever detritus may have accumulated overnight. We left the shade of our tree and made our way round to the back of the house and watched the service entrance, where a butcher’s wagon was just pulling away. I made mental note of the name and address painted on its side and then dragged Cécile back to her waiting carriage in rue Saint-Antoine.
“Aren’t we going to call and demand to see Estella?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
As the astute reader will have already surmised, I ordered the driver to the butcher’s, where I queried the owner about the delivery he had recently sent to the Lamar residence. “I am more embarrassed than I can say.” I spoke to him in a low, conspiratorial voice. “Mademoiselle Lamar is to dine with me tomorrow—she is only just back in Paris, you know—and I want to make sure I do not serve her whatever she is having her own chef prepare tonight. Would you be so kind as to check what meat she ordered from you?”
“Mademoiselle Lamar, you say? I do not believe there has been any significant change to her standing order.” He riffled through a stack of papers. “We only delivered soup bones and a bit of mutton today—that’s what the servants always have. I wasn’t aware the mistress of the house had returned. I would have sent over something special if I had.”
We thanked him and went back to the carriage. “It is just as I suspected. Estella is not home.”
“How can you be sure, Kallista?”
“Her chef would have ordered something more than that if she were. I cannot decide if we should return to place des Vosges. It is possible the house is being watched.”
“By whom?” Cécile asked.
“The auburn-haired man, of course.” The coachman, standing patiently beside my door, was waiting for directions to pass on to the driver. “I think we must risk it.”
This time, once back in the square, we marched straight to Estella’s front door. The servant who answered it recognized us, let us in, and asked if we wanted to see the steward.
“I was rather hoping to speak to Mademoiselle Lamar.” I studied with great interest his reaction to my request. He cocked his head to one side, looking confused.
“I am most sorry, Lady Emily, Mademoiselle Lamar is still away.”
“Are you quite certain? I saw her just this morning in the Luxembourg Gardens.”
“You did? Will you excuse me, madame? I will fetch the steward.”
It did not appear that the young man was feigning his disbelief, particularly as it mingled with a flash of fear, just the sort of thing one would expect from the members of one’s staff if, while the mistress of the house was away, they were slacking in their duties—as evidenced in the maid so belatedly tending to the entrance of the house—and they now realize they are about to be caught. While we waited for the steward, I pressed my ear to each of the doors to the rooms facing the entrance hall, but heard no signs of habitation behind any of them.
“Lady Emily, Madame du Lac, do forgive me if I have kept you waiting. The footman tells me you have only just seen Mademoiselle Lamar. Did she inform you of her plans? Are we to expect her imminent arrival?”
His reaction, too, appeared in all ways genuine, but I knew better than to trust anyone blindly. “I was under the impression she hoped to be in later today, was that not right, Cécile?” Cécile glowered at me, but nodded her agreement. “Would you be so good as to escort us to her bedroom? We brought with us a few treats for her toilette that we would like to leave. A little surprise, to welcome her home.”
That he did not balk at this request supported my belief in the veracity of his words. He led us up the stairs and opened Estella’s door for us. “Do you require anything further from me? If not, I shall leave you to your task and start readying the house for Mademoiselle Lamar’s arrival.”
I dismissed him, feeling a pang of guilt for sending him into such a tizzy. Cécile was more upset than I.
“You will give the poor man a digestive disorder, Kallista! It is too bad of you—is it not obvious that Estella is not here and has had no contact with her staff?”
“It is obvious
now
.” I was quickly rummaging through Estella’s wardrobe and drawers, trying my best to remember what Colin had said he had seen in them the other day. So far as I could tell, there was nothing new, and there certainly were no trunks, valises, or anything strewn about that would point to the recent return of a weary traveler. The servants were telling the truth. “I did not mean to torment the poor man, Cécile, but it is essential that we act with extreme care. Someone—be it Estella or another person—wants us to believe that Estella is here when clearly she is not. Now, if Estella were behind this, I would have expected to find her in residence, but hiding from us. The servants will come to no harm by having been scared into doing their duties to whatever standard they believe their mistress requires. Are they not meant to be doing that regardless?”
Cécile shrugged.
“C’est bien.”
“It would be unkind, though, to let them continue in this delusion. Perhaps we should tell them the truth. Unless you think it possible Estella
is
hiding somewhere in the house?”
Cécile pursed her lips and tilted her head. “I think we should conduct a thorough search before we make any rash decisions about the servants. Estella’s letter was sent from Paris. If she is not in her house, where is she?”
We stepped into the corridor, greeted by the sounds of bustling servants below us on the ground floor, and examined each of the rooms on the first and then second floors. The third floor was reserved for the servants, but I felt we could not exclude it from our examination of the house. If Estella were hiding, it would be as good a place as any. She was not there. Returning to the ground floor, we made our way through each of the rooms. Nothing had changed in any of them from our previous visit other than the flowers—the malodorous lilies had been replaced with arrangements featuring enormous blue hydrangeas.
Nothing further remained to be explored except the rooms below stairs. After finishing with those, and feeling confident Estella was not in the house—even the most cunning individual would be hard-pressed to leave no sign at all of her return after so many years—I asked one of the maids scurrying about with mops and buckets to summon the steward for me. When he appeared, beads of perspiration dotting his face, I requested that he sit down with us in the salon with tapestries. He did, and I explained to him what little we knew.
“This is most alarming, Lady Emily.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I am relieved that Mademoiselle Lamar is not about to appear and find us so very behind in our duties. I assure you, we have not been lax—”
I interrupted him. “We have seen the state of the house. Its condition is excellent. If Mademoiselle Lamar did appear unannounced, she would not be much disappointed. I should take better care to see that the area around the front door is swept earlier in the day. Other than that, she could hardly complain.”
“But where is Mademoiselle Lamar? You say she is in Paris—why is she not here?”
“We do not know that, and I was hoping that perhaps you would be able to illuminate us. Have you had any word from her at all?”
“No, nothing since her last letter from Siam, and I already gave that to you.”
“Have you noticed anyone prowling around the house at night?”
“No, madame, nothing has been out of the ordinary. The place des Vosges is not an area ripe with burglars, if that is what you are suggesting.”
“All areas can be vulnerable. Do, please, have everyone on the staff on their guard.”
“Of course. Anything I can do to help.”
“I would like to know more about the florist who delivers here. You have been using him from the time Mademoiselle Lamar set off on her travels?” I asked.
“I do not remember specifically, but that sounds correct.”
“Does Monsieur Swiveller deliver his arrangements himself?”
“I believe he has a delivery boy.”
“Would you recognize the lad?” Cécile asked.
“Hardly. He rarely, if ever, sends the same one twice.”
“What day does he come?”
“Wednesday, in the morning. You have just missed him.”
“Could you contact Monsieur Swiveller and ask him to bring another arrangement?” Cécile asked.
“No, that would most likely alert him to a problem,” I said. “I am going to come here next Tuesday night, and sleep in Estella’s room. When the flower delivery boy arrives on Wednesday, no matter how early, I want him stopped so that I may speak to him.”
“I do not know, Lady Emily, that Mademoiselle—”
“This is of critical importance. I have already communicated to you the possibility that Mademoiselle Lamar is in a great deal of danger. If she comes to harm, and you have impeded my investigation, you will be nearly as guilty as the miscreant at whose hands she suffers.” I realized I was exaggerating, but sometimes one must paint a picture brighter than reality in order to persuade others to cooperate with one’s schemes. If it turned out that Estella was cozied up at Hôtel Meurice with a dashing Bedouin she had collected on her travels, she might be furious that I had invaded her home, but she could hardly fault my motives. If she did, I was ready to face her ire.
The steward, having borne the brunt of my ever-increasing intensity, agreed to do whatever I thought best. I was grateful to him, but made a mental note to speak in the strongest terms to Davis on my return to England. I would not want him, no matter what anyone said, to ever let my own home be invaded.
* * *
That Estella was at Hôtel Meurice—with or without a dashing Bedouin—was a distinct possibility. Le Meurice, a favorite of mine, provided the exquisite service and accommodation favored by the most genteel of travelers, and I was pleased to see my old friend Monsieur Beaulieu still managing the hotel. He greeted me warmly as soon as the desk clerk had alerted him to our arrival in the lobby. I explained the situation to him, in tones both hushed and urgent, and asked if Estella Lamar was currently a guest.
“You are well aware, Lady Emily, that the privacy of those who stay with us is of primary concern, yet if you truly believe Mademoiselle Lamar to be in danger—you say your husband is working with the Sûreté?”
This was, perhaps, not strictly true. Colin worked alone, or with me, but the Sûreté had given him a letter authorizing his credentials in France. Surely that was virtually the same as him working in conjunction with them? “Yes. If he were here he could show you their letter, but he is currently occupied with another, more dangerous aspect, of the case. He felt certain I would be safe consulting with you.” I felt a little flattery and a concession to Monsieur Beaulieu’s sensibilities concerning ladies and detective work would be expedient.
Monsieur Beaulieu stroked his beard and nodded. “I can tell you that, although I myself would not be able to recognize Mademoiselle Lamar, I do not believe her to be staying with us. I would have taken note of her name.”
“It is likely she would have given another name at registration. Might I take a peek at the book on the desk?” He hesitated, but I can be extremely persuasive when necessary, and before long he had agreed to my request. As I paged through the register, I was reminded of the first time I had stayed at Le Meurice. Colin had arranged rooms for me—this was before I had the slightest clue I was in love with him—when I was newly out of deep mourning for my first husband. I wished I could ask Monsieur Beaulieu to pull out the old volume with my signature in it. This, however, was not the time for sentimental pleasures.
Cécile and I considered each and every name entered into the book in the course of the past three weeks. There were no Dickensian names, nothing that appeared to be Estella’s handwriting, and, obviously, perhaps, no Lamar. “Do any of these names seem suspect to you?” I asked my friend.
“A great number of them are what I would consider unfortunate—I give you Daffyth Kentwell-Hennebry—”
“That doesn’t strike me as all that bad.”
“Because you are English, Kallista.”
“The Baroness von Hohensteinbauergrunewald is much worse.”
“Hohensteinbauergrunewald?” Cécile asked. “I know that name. I am almost certain I came across it a few years back when reading a rather sensational account of an archaeological controversy of some sort in Egypt that led to murder. Is she still here? I would very much like to make her acquaintance.”
“Only you, Cécile, could claim familiarity with the name von Hohensteinbauergrunewald. Unfortunately, the baroness checked out three days ago, so we will not be able to meet her.”
Cécile shrugged. “Such a pity. She sounded more ridiculous than the average baroness and I have no doubt would have been most entertaining for a short while. As to your earlier question, Kallista, none of these names strike me as works of fiction. More importantly, none sounds like something Estella would choose to adopt.”
“I quite agree.”
We thanked Monsieur Beaulieu for his assistance, assured him we would be back to dine in the hotel’s excellent restaurant before we left Paris, and stepped onto the arcaded pavement that ran along the rue de Rivoli. We could not search every hotel in Paris, and decided to walk back to Cécile’s house. We dismissed the carriage and, crossing the street, entered the Jardin des Tuileries. “When I was a girl, the Tuileries Palace still stood here,” Cécile said. “The view from the Champs-Élysées was destroyed when they burned it during the Commune. It was a tragedy of useless destruction, but those were terrible days of much violence. We are far better off now, but what a century it has been.”