Chapter Thirty-Two

We were in Paris.

Iwas in Paris.

It didn't sound any less ridiculous the more times I said it in my head, or even – on several occasions – aloud.

"I know perfectly well where we are, Bloom," Oliver said bitterly. "There is no need for you to keep announcing it."

"But, Lockhart," I breathed, standing in front of the window of my room in the Grand Hotel Du Louvre, looking down over the bustling Place du Palais Royal, lined with its impossibly grand buildings, all sand-coloured stone and soaring colonnades, and classical sculpture. "We are actually in Paris. Paris! France!"

Oliver groaned into a cushion from where he was slumped into the red silk of the sofa – because not only was I staying in an enormous hotel with two hundred rooms, two steam-powered lifts, a famous artist in residence on the floor above us, and its own telegraph room ("That will come in handy," Mrs Finch had remarked), but my room was a suite, which meant it was actually several rooms full of glass chandeliers and oil paintings and antique furniture, and I had never seen anything like it.

I glanced at Oliver, flooded with sympathy. "Are you feeling any better?" I asked.

Oliver lifted his head at that. "I told you already that I am perfectly fine. I don't know why you have to keep asking. Between that and the constant ejaculations of ‘Paris! Paris! Paris!' you are growing incredibly wearisome."

I decided to ignore this outburst because he was still pale and limp.

"Just let me know if you think you're going to cast up your accounts again," I said cheerfully. "I will have to try to find the least expensive-looking receptacle for you to vomit into." This would be tricky as everything in the room seemed to be made of solid gold.

"I did not cast up my accounts, you wretched woman," Oliver groused, closing his eyes. "So stop saying that I did."

It seemed Oliver had inherited his mother's aversion to travelling by sea, and he had spent the entire ferry journey across the Channel clinging to the side of the boat, green-faced and miserable.

"I don't care what you say," I chided, "as soon as the hot water we sent for arrives, you'll drink the tisane I'm mixing."

I moved to the coffee table and bent over the leather case I had unpacked, a gift from Mrs Finch when Winnie and I began our experiments. It was neatly divided into three layers of small, square cavities, housing glass jars filled with various dried and powdered plants.

"Ginger," I said, pulling out jars as I went, "and barberry and mint."

"Sounds revolting."

I fixed him with a hard stare. "You will drink it and then you'll feel better."

There was a knock at the door, and the arrival of the hot water (in an elaborate silver pot) coincided with the arrival of the rest of the Finches for our meeting to discuss our strategy.

Sylla eyed Oliver with distaste before dropping into an armchair. "Why do you still look so … clammy?" she asked in greeting.

"I am not clammy. I am perfectly fine," Oliver ground out.

"I'm making him a tisane," I said, and Winnie drifted over, eyeing my movements with curiosity.

"Barberry?" she asked, pushing her glasses up her nose. "I thought that was an emetic?"

"What is an emetic?" Oliver asked suspiciously.

"It causes vomiting," Winnie said sunnily.

"I knew it! You're trying to poison me!" Oliver exploded in outrage, while Sylla perked up, leaning forward with obvious interest.

"I am not poisoning you," I said calmly. "In largequantities, barberry can cause sickness, but the amount I am using here will only soothe any stomach pain. It is all in the dosage."

"Fascinating," Winnie murmured. "Isn't it curious how often we have found that the same ingredient can cause problems and cure them?"

"Sounds like Bloom," Oliver grumbled. "First she gives me a headache, then she shoves tea down my throat to get rid of it."

"Just be quiet and drink this," I said, handing him the teacup, which was steaming gently and smelled pleasant, and therefore did not at all deserve the wrinkled look of disgust on Oliver's face.

"I have to say," Maud chimed in from beside the fireplace where she was poking at the various ornaments on display on the mantel, "that this hotel is a step up from our usual digs. I'm glad you invited Win and me along for this one."

"We have Mr Lockhart to thank for the accommodations," Mrs Finch said. "It is especially convenient that Sylla was already installed here and has several contacts working on the staff who could arrange things to our liking." Our rooms were all next to one another, and the rest of the rooms around us had been kept empty – providing us with a level of privacy that we needed.

"The Lavignes' rooms are two floors below ours?" I said.

"Yes." Mrs Finch nodded. "And I would say that any qualms they may have had about the trip were dispelled by the grandeur of the hotel. I believe they are starting to relax again, which is in our favour. We want their guards down." She turned to Sylla. "Perhaps you would like to update us all on your own progress?"

I knew that Mrs Finch had met Sylla in her room straightaway to share our news, but we had not yet heard what had been going on this side of the Channel.

"Certainly." Sylla reclined in her chair, picking an invisible speck of lint off her extremely fashionable sapphire gown. "I have been busy establishing the veracity of the Lavignes' claims – or lack thereof. You have since learned that Mr Lavigne has another identity all together, but I believe I can still provide several missing pieces of the puzzle." She leaned forward. "To put it succinctly, on the surface, everything the Lavignes have told you appears to be true."

"What?" Maud exclaimed. "How can that be possible?"

Sylla's shrug was liquid. "I can only tell you what I know. A Mr and Mrs Lavigne lived for over a dozen years in Herblay, most of these with their adopted daughter, Helene. Mr Lavigne was a merchant, and Helene was sent away to school – the Lycée Sainte-Geneviève. Most importantly" – she focused her attention on Oliver – "Helene was discovered as a child, wandering alone in the village with a head injury and no memory of her past."

"My God!" Oliver sprung to his feet. "It is true, then? Ellen is alive?"

"It seems likely that it was indeed your sister who survived the accident and was adopted by the Lavignes," Sylla conceded. "There were several extremely talkative characters in the village who couldn't wait to share the story with me – wildly embellished in places, of course. There was some speculation that Helene had been a lost princess, the secret descendent of the Bourbon line. However, I attributed this particular theory to the surprisingly good brandy on offer in the local tavern. What is also a fact is that your mother's accident took place in Le Pecq. The dates align perfectly. It is possible then, even probable, that the story the Lavignes told was true – that the young girl found in Herblay was Ellen. Whether she is also the girl in this hotel is another question. We know that the couple purporting to be her parents are certainly not the real Lavignes."

Oliver's legs went from under him, and he collapsed back into the sofa, all colour gone from his face. "I do not think I really let myself believe," he murmured. "My sister is truly alive." His eyes darted between us. "Is she also Helene, then? The Helene we know, I mean."

Sylla let out a noise of frustration. "There, I hit something of a wall. The Lavignes left Herblay around eight months ago, and no one seemed certain where they had gone or whether they took their daughter with them. Several people said that they had moved somewhere down south, but that Helene had not gone with them. One woman swore that Helene was living alone in Paris, and she had a good deal to say on the matter of loose morals and modern young ladies." Sylla's nose wrinkled. "Parochial attitudes abound in the suburbs."

"We must look into David Brown, I suppose," I said. "It seems to me that uncovering the truth about the Lavignes will inevitably lead to the truth about Helene's involvement."

"Yes," Sylla said approvingly, "and of course there is the school. I have managed to arrange an appointment tomorrow afternoon with the headmistress. From what I can gather, she has been there since the dawn of time, so she should be able to answer questions about Helene."

"Can we get Helene to go to the school with us?" I asked. "Surely then the headmistress will be able to identify her?"

"We cannot." Mrs Finch shook her head regretfully. "Such a suggestion would spring the trap too soon – Mr and Mrs Lavigne would certainly take to their heels, and with them would go the information we need about Ellen."

"I can sketch her," Maud said. "I have seen her several times since we arrived at the hotel, and it would be easy to do. It is not perfect, but…"

Winnie nodded. "It is a good idea. Maud is an excellent artist," she added proudly.

"Yes," Sylla said thoughtfully. "Maud can do the sketch and then Mr Lockhart and Mari can take it with them tomorrow."

"Us?" I said. "We're the ones who are going to the school?"

"It makes sense," Sylla said. "Helene's history is well known; it will be natural for you to have questions about Lockhart's missing sister. You will tell the Lavignes you have wedding arrangements to make while you are here – that your wedding outfits are being made by Worth. I have already taken the precaution of making you an appointment that several dressmakers will swear you attended."

"What about the rest of you?" Oliver asked.

"Maud and Winnie will follow the Lavignes to make sure they are behaving themselves," Sylla replied briskly. "With any luck, they will lead us to more clues about their history if they believe they are unobserved, and as they have not met Maud or Winnie it should be a straightforward job." She fixed Maud and Winnie with a dark look. "As long as I can trust that neither of you will get distracted."

"Please!" Maud looked offended. "We are professionals." The picture of professionalism she was trying to present was slightly undermined when she added, "But is it too much to hope that they have an interest in seeing the can-can dancers?"

"Or skeletons. I'm longing to visit the catacombs…" Winnie said with a delighted shiver. "For science!" she added when several pairs of eyes turned to her.

"I will be looking further into the accident at Le Pecq," Sylla said, ignoring all this. "I have managed to track down one of the local police officers who was originally connected to the case."

"And I have several meetings set with contacts in the … less genteel parts of the city," Mrs Finch said. "I have a feeling that David Brown might be well known there. All being well, we will reconvene at Café Fleur at four o'clock tomorrow to share information – we already know that the Lavignes plan to take tea at the hotel then."

"Good," I said, eyeing Oliver, who looked anxious and wan. "So we have a plan. But now I need some fresh air. Lockhart?" I gave him my biggest smile. "Would you care to take a walk? I don't know if you've noticed, but … we are in Paris."