Thomas ate a late lunch: ham and potatoes, followed by nuts and cheese and a pot of coffee, brought in by Mrs Billows, an oversolicitous woman who had lost her husband and sons in the war. In an attempt to ameliorate her all-consuming grief, she’d spent her life savings on lavish memorials for all of them. In order to earn a living, she’d converted the house her husband’s family had lived in for generations into flats, which she rented out to ‘a certain calibre of gentlemen.’ There were eight rooms, all of them let. Each room was comfortably furnished in dark colours with overstuffed chairs. She cooked three meals a day and was happy to deliver them on a tray. She took pride in her home. In addition to the lunch, today she brought Thomas a tin filled with fresh scones and a jar of homemade lemon curd. He noticed that she had taken pains with her appearance.
‘I’ll just come back up and get this in a few hours, Mr Charles,’ she said.
‘No need, Mrs Billows. I’ll bring it down when I go out.’
‘I made the lemon curd myself,’ she said. She moved towards the second chair in the small sitting area, as if she meant to sit down and visit. Thomas stood and escorted her to the door.
‘I’m frightfully busy with work just now, but thank you so much, Mrs Billows.’
‘You’re very welcome, Mr Charles; if there’s anything you need –’
‘I know where to find you,’ Thomas said. He shut the door behind her and turned the lock. He knew that he was an enigma to Mrs Billows – and the tenants as well – with his well-made clothes, his books, and the unusual hours he kept. He had rented this flat for years and managed to keep his business private, despite polite enquiries.
He ate his ham and potatoes, poured himself a steaming mug of coffee, and contemplated the two dossiers on Michael Blackwell. The thinner one, assembled as a result of Mr Blackwell’s vetting and debriefing after escaping the Gestapo, had been singularly unremarkable, and as thorough as could be expected, given the circumstances. As far as Reginald was concerned, Michael Blackwell was just another English citizen who fled Nazi Germany and brought home horror stories of life under the iron-fisted control of the Reich.
Thomas read the file twice and could recite it by memory if need be. One of these days the newspapers would tell the truth about Hitler. Thomas had spent enough time in Germany to see the horrors of Hitler’s regime first-hand. Hitler had systematically destroyed all his political opponents, many by execution. After that, he’d set out to strip German Jews of any citizenship rights. The Nuremberg Laws, which were passed in September of 1935, gave the government the authority to seize assets. The Jews who were wealthy enough to leave the country only did so after relinquishing their money to the Reich. And the world stood by, feigning ignorance.
Now Hitler was using every ounce of Germany’s resources to build planes and an army, in direct violation of the Treaty of Versailles. Thomas had the misfortune to attend the Nuremberg rally in 1935. He had been sickened by the zealous crowds, so mesmerised by the scrawny little man with the wild eyes. Thomas spent many a sleepless night trying to quiet his mind against the things he’d seen in Germany. Now he hoped that in some small way, he and men like Reginald were helping his country prepare for the inevitable conflict.
He poured himself a small brandy and pushed the thinner file aside. The next file was a complete compendium on Michael Blackwell’s entire life. Thomas read about Blackwell’s smallpox, his bout of influenza, his years at boarding school, his aptitude for reading and languages, and his struggle – at least until a tutor had been brought in to remedy the situation – with maths. Blackwell enjoyed the privilege of a public school education, and he had travelled the world when he wasn’t in school. He learned to ride horses at an early age and tried his hand at breeding dogs. His grandparents on his mother’s side were from Germany. Michael Blackwell grew up speaking German – along with French, Italian, and Spanish – like a native. He skied in Switzerland and Austria in the winter and sailed in Cornwall during the summer. He had many friends and seemed to be well liked.
He joined the Royal Flying Corps and fought for his country, earning a Distinguished Flying Cross. In 1920 he returned to England and flailed about with the unsuitable women who lived near or worked for his family’s estate in Bournemouth. After that, the information became sporadic. In 1924 he relocated to Germany, and – as far as Thomas could tell – he hadn’t been home since. A handful of photos accompanied the documents.
Thomas thumbed through them and almost shut the file in frustration. Because he was thorough, he took a second look through the photos. He noted nothing unusual in the childhood photos. Michael Blackwell had a full head of wheat-coloured hair, a high forehead, intelligent eyes that looked directly at the camera. Thomas surmised Blackwell was a no-nonsense type of man who seized life with gusto. He knew his type. They hunted lions and climbed mountains. Fearless, courageous men, who thrived during wars and suffered during peacetime.
He thumbed through the childhood photos of birthday parties, pony rides, and cricket matches, studying Michael Blackwell’s childhood face, taking note as the bone structure solidified into the man Michael Blackwell had become.
The most recent picture in the file depicted Blackwell in his uniform, standing next to an older woman – his mother, perhaps – in front of a rambling house. He turned the picture over and read a typed label ‘1917 Bournemouth.’ Thomas scrutinised the picture, noting the prominent cheekbones, oval face, strong jaw, wide eyes, and full lips. The lips.
His heartbeat quickened. He grabbed the thinner file and pulled out a series of photos taken of Blackwell when he arrived in England, which had been glued to the inside of the file. This man had the gaunt look of the undernourished and sleep-deprived. His hair thinned and receded from his forehead. All of this could be explained by bad diet and lack of sleep, not to mention the added stress of living under a totalitarian regime.
Thomas loosened the picture from the file and set it next to the picture taken of Blackwell in 1917. The man in the recent photo had a round, moon-shaped face – despite the hint of cheekbones – thin lips, and eyes that were just the slightest bit asymmetrical. The line of the brow was different. There was a resemblance, the colouring was similar, but the photos that Thomas stared at depicted two different men. The Michael Blackwell who was living in the Carlisle house was an imposter. Who was he? More importantly, what was he after?
Thomas made a phone call. Ten minutes later, he left the tray of dirty dishes, stuffed the pictures in his pocket, and hurried out the door. He arrived in Piccadilly just as the sun was going down. The tailor shop and estate agent’s office were long closed, and the narrow out-of-the-way street that housed the antiquarian bookshop was all but deserted. The closed sign was up, but the door was unlocked. Thomas entered the darkened store.
‘Lock that door, will you, Tom?’ Sir Reginald called out from the shadowy recesses in the back. ‘And come on back here.’
Thomas turned the lock on the door, double-checking the street traffic to make sure no one had followed him, a habit long cultivated and hard to break. He turned and wove his way through the aisles of books to a tiny office tucked in the back of the shop.
Thomas found Reginald there, sitting in the only comfortable chair, his cane – an oak one today with a lapis lazuli handle shaped like a cobra – stood upright between his legs. An old desk with a chair that looked as if it might not support Thomas’s weight looked out over a lifeless alley lined with rubbish bins. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling revealed the heaps of books and piles of papers that covered the desk. Thomas wondered how anyone could get any work done in an office so full of clutter. He almost sat in the chair, but decided instead to lean against the windowsill, never mind that his back faced the back alley.
‘I’m glad you called,’ Reginald said.
‘What’s happened?’ Thomas asked.
He shook his head. ‘Mine can wait. Proceed.’
Thomas turned on the brass lamp – tarnished to a shade of sea green from lack of polishing – and removed the two pictures of Michael Blackwell from his pocket. He set them side by side.
Reginald leaned in and scrutinised the pictures, hawk-like. Thomas stepped away from the desk and gave the old man room.
‘I’ll be damned,’ Reginald said.
‘Indeed,’ Thomas said. ‘Can’t help but wonder if the imposter is in league with Marlena X. He could potentially have full access to anything Mr Carlisle brings home.’
‘She’s disappeared,’ Reginald said. ‘Probably hiding.’
‘But if Blackwell – or whoever he is – has a way to contact her, we could use that to our advantage.’
‘Agreed.’ Reginald didn’t speak for a moment.
‘Benton Carlisle’s been murdered.’
‘What?’ Thomas searched Reginald’s face, trying to gauge his response. ‘Murdered? When? How? Marlena X?’
Reginald shook his head. ‘Mr Carlisle was cudgelled. Crime of passion. Not Marlena X’s line of country, I’m afraid. She’d slit his throat and be done with it.’
‘Agreed. She needs him alive, so she can access his work.’
‘Unless he caught her trying to access his documents,’ Reginald said. ‘I doubt she would actually go in the Carlisle house. Why would she? She’s got someone inside working with her.’
Thomas said, ‘How would you like me to proceed?’
‘I’ll arrange for you to interrogate Mr Blackwell tomorrow.’ Reginald gave a silent nod. ‘I suggest that you be as candid as possible with the chief inspector in charge of the case without disclosing Mrs Carlisle’s involvement. No need to tell them exactly for whom you work, just hint at the hush-hush nature of Mr Carlisle’s work and take it from there. You’ll have to play this one appropriately, Tom.’
‘Can I tell the police that Michael Blackwell is an imposter?’
‘Yes,’ Reginald said. ‘Chief Inspector Bellerose is the man in charge. Good chap, intelligent. We’re going to have to operate with as much candour as possible, I’m afraid. Tell him what you need to, just leave Mrs Carlisle out of it. The last thing we need is for Bellerose to latch on to her as a suspect.’
Thomas sighed. He felt the throbbing at the back of his head. ‘If he pushes her, she might tell him –’
‘I know,’ Reginald said. ‘And please don’t remind me that she has no training. She has fulfilled everything I have asked her to do with a quiet grace that has impressed me. As I’ve told you before, she will be of use to us.’
‘So tomorrow then?’ The walls closed in on Thomas. He was ready to be rid of Reginald.
‘Plan on ten a.m. I’ll get word to you if the time changes.’
‘Very well,’ Thomas said. He strode out of the shop, leaving Reginald sitting in the tiny office under the dim light of the bare bulb.
***
The morning after Benton’s body was discovered, Cat stood behind the old tree in front of the Carlisle house, spying the place she had called home. Now, the house looked devoid of life, at least from the street. She waited, trying to figure out if Isobel and Marie were home. The curtains in Benton’s study and the drawing room that overlooked the street were still drawn. The morning’s milk remained on the porch.
She shivered in her aunt’s raincoat, crossed the street, and walked up the steps to the front door. Once there, she pressed her ear against the cold wood, listening for any sign of life. Nothing. She reckoned that Blackie had left for work. Isobel and Marie must be busy with arrangements for the funeral. She’d been so preoccupied, she hadn’t given any thought to organising Benton’s funeral.
She unlocked the door and slipped into the house. She didn’t call out to announce her presence. She simply wanted to collect her clothes and her precious books, and slip out of the house unnoticed. If providence smiled on her, she wouldn’t see anyone.
The house was cold and filled with a musty smell that Cat hadn’t noticed before. The gold mirror that hung in the entry hall – a gaudy piece that Cat loathed – was now covered with a black cloth, an antiquated sign of formal mourning. Isobel would savour the letters of sympathy, the flowers, and the condolences that would come her way. She would bask in the sympathy of others, squeezing every bit of attention out of her grief. Cat tried to feel sorry for her sister-in-law, who would surely be lost now that her brother was gone. She felt nothing. Certain she was alone in the house, she hurried up the stairs, knowing what boards creaked on which stairs and avoiding them without thinking about it.
The door to her room was locked. Cat slipped the skeleton key that opened all the doors in the house out of her purse, unlocked the door to her room, and stepped over the threshold. She cried out when she saw the state of things. The bureau drawers gaped open. A lone stocking hung out of one of them, its mate entangled in one of the tortoiseshell combs that Cat used to hold up her hair while she bathed. One of drawers had been pulled out of the dresser. It lay on the floor, tipped on its side, a myriad of gloves and nightdresses spilled about around it. The bookcase was bare, as each and every one of Cat’s books now lay on the floor in a pile of cracked spines and torn pages.
She bit back the overwhelming sense of violation and stayed focused on the task at hand. The sooner she got away from the Carlisles and this house the better. Her suits and dresses had been pulled from the hangers and lay in a tumbled pile on the floor. She spent a few minutes hanging some of the dresses back up. She folded her four best suits and three best dresses. She grabbed three pairs of shoes, two hats, four pairs of gloves, and an extra handbag. She got her coat and her walking shoes and made quick work of folding these items into neat piles on her bed.
The clothes that she didn’t take would be sold at one of the second-hand shops. She would have to be prudent with money from now on. She laughed out loud. Given that Benton had kept Cat short of funds since the day they were married, that shouldn’t be too difficult. But she had Annie to consider now. She left all but one of her fancy dresses. Somehow Cat didn’t think fancy-dress balls would be a part of her new life. She made a mental note to take the quilt from her bed, a cherished gift from her grandmother. Now to fetch a suitcase from the attic. She could pack and slip out of the house, with no one the wiser.
There was only one staircase that accessed the attic. To get to it, Cat had to pass Isobel’s rooms. She hurried past the closed door, tiptoed up to the attic, and scurried back down with her suitcase, like a criminal thieving in the night. In the end, Cat opted to only bring one dress and two suits, freeing up room in her suitcase for some of her books. She jammed her clothes and books in – not caring if the clothes wrinkled in the process. She had to sit on the case to shut the latch, but once that was done, she lugged the suitcase down the stairs and set it near the front door.
She went back, fetched her hatbox and purse, and was closing her bedroom door and locking it, when Isobel’s bedroom door opened. Cat froze, waited for Marie or worse Isobel. She girded herself for the inevitable confrontation. Light spilled into the dark hallway. No one came. Captivated by the murmur of voices, Cat moved closer to the open door, careful that the hatbox she carried didn’t hit the wall and alert Isobel to her presence.
‘Freddy’s doubled his price.’ Isobel’s voice sliced through the darkness in the hallway like a razor. ‘He thinks I’m going to inherit Benton’s fortune, so he’s asking for more money.’
‘Oh, Izzy,’ Marie said.
‘I’m going to have to pay him.’
‘Give him his bloody money. Once you pay him, we can make plans. I’ll arrange a trip for us. It’ll be all right. You’ll see.’ Marie spoke with surprising strength and authority, as though she’d stepped in to be strong for Isobel in this time of crisis. But there was something else there, something that Cat couldn’t place. Feeling brave, she stepped closer to the pool of light.
‘Benton wouldn’t pay. Of course, I didn’t tell him that Freddy was the actual blackmailer. He would have been furious. Benton said that once you pay a blackmailer, they never go away. I’d like to know how Freddy managed to take those pictures. He must have been following us. He must have known somehow …’ Isobel’s voice faded into a whisper.
Cat strained to hear, stepping yet closer to the open door.
‘Listen to me, Izzy,’ Marie said. ‘We’re going to pay him. Then we are going to move somewhere so we can have some peace. God knows, I’m ready for it. I’ll get the money somehow. Trust me. I’ll figure out how to get us out of here. We’ll start over. Maybe we’ll go to America. We’ll get a little cottage by the sea and have a quiet life. How about we pretend we are sisters? No one will be any the wiser.’
‘You have such nice dreams, Marie,’ Isobel said.
‘It doesn’t have to be a dream. Once we’re gone, Freddy won’t be able to find us. He can do whatever he wants with those pictures. We’ll be gone. He won’t have any hold over us. Not any more.’
The voices stopped.
Cat’s curiosity got the best of her. She stepped even closer and positioned herself so she could see into Isobel’s room. Marie and Isobel sat next to each other on a sofa that faced the window. Fortunately, the two women sat with their backs to Cat, so she could watch them unobserved. Isobel wore a tattered flannel dressing gown. Her hair fell in a braid over her shoulder, like a silver snake. Marie sat next to her. She put an arm around Isobel’s shoulder and pulled her close.
‘It will be okay, Izzy. We love each other. That’s all that matters.’
‘Oh, Marie.’ The words caught in Isobel’s throat as she faced Marie, pulled the woman into her arms, and kissed her, a long passionate kiss.
Cat put her hand over her mouth to stop herself from gasping, as Marie reciprocated. She watched the passionate intimacy between the women, but couldn’t take it in. She stepped away from the door, not quite believing what she had just seen. She blinked her eyes, as if to erase the image of the private moment. She rushed down the stairs, grabbed her suitcase, and hurried away from the Carlisle house, like a thief who had stolen an unwanted secret.