CHAPTER 26

LONDON

MAY 2019

I sat next to Arabella on a crowded Jubilee Line tube carriage, our impressive collection of shopping bags tucked behind our legs, and I tried hard not to look like a tourist. I wasn’t wearing a fanny pack, which put me ahead of the game, and I was traveling with a bona fide Brit, but she said my face shouted “American.” She thought it had something to do with my perpetual tan and my straight white teeth, courtesy of fluoride in the water and three years in braces.

Arabella was tapping away on her cell phone, a result of being out of the office for an entire day, but I didn’t feel guilty since our shopping expedition had been her idea.

She looked up. “When is your lunch with the historian at the London College of Fashion? I’d like to join you. I’ll have Mia clear my schedule.”

“Tuesday at eleven thirty.”

Arabella nodded, then went back to tapping. The sudden sound of the theme song from Gone With the Wind erupted, strident enough to be heard over the sound of the train wheels on the metal tracks. I glanced around, realizing that people were looking at my purse on my lap. Arabella elbowed me. “I believe that’s yours.”

I fumbled for my phone, yanked it out, and hit “decline” when I saw it was Knoxie. On train. Can’t talk right now. I usually kept my ringer off, which was why I hadn’t been aware my brother had changed that ringtone, too.

It’s Aunt Cassie—my phone is dead and I’m borrowing your sister’s. When are you coming home? Maid of honor is supposed to organize bridal shower.

I resisted rolling my eyes. I don’t know. Pick a date and book the Dixie Diner. If I’m not there, Knoxie will know what to do. She’s always been bossy.

Two photos appeared on my screen, of iced confections that made my mouth water. A text from my aunt followed. Chocolate or vanilla charm cakes? Or both?

“What’s a charm cake?”

I turned to see Arabella unabashedly looking over my shoulder.

“It’s a Southern wedding thing. They’re little pastries with charms attached to a ribbon hiding inside. Each of the bridesmaids pulls one out to discover her fate.” I thought for a moment, trying to recall the meanings from when I’d been Suzanne’s maid of honor at my dad’s wedding. “Let’s see. . . . The anchor charm means a stable life. The ring means marriage, and the airplane means travel and adventure.”

“Sounds like a Southern version of a fortune cookie.”

“Pretty much,” I said, turning back to my phone as it buzzed again.

I’m thinking both.

Great. Sounds like you’ve got it all under control.

Lucinda wants to throw a lingerie shower at Lucinda’s Lingerie. I said I liked the idea if she didn’t mind punch and icing being near all that lace and polyester.

All fine with me.

I started to return my phone to my purse when it buzzed again. It sounds like you’re not taking your position as MOH seriously.

I held my thumbs over my phone, trying to think of a way to remind her why I didn’t want my visit to Walton to be too prolonged. Before I could type the first letter, my phone buzzed again.

How are things with Colin? Tell him I’ve earmarked the guest room at my house for him for the wedding. It’s over the back porch, so easy to access from the trellis. I recall you’re good at climbing it.

I pressed the “power” button on the side of my phone, shutting it off, then threw it into my purse.

“Does Colin know he’s invited to the wedding?” Arabella asked, unashamed.

“No, because he’s not. I have no idea why my aunt thinks he might be.”

“Maybe she just has an aunt’s intuition. The sparks practically zoom off you two when you’re together.”

“Or it’s wishful thinking.”

“I bet he’d go. He’d probably go to Antarctica if you asked him, so Georgia shouldn’t be a problem.”

The train squealed to a stop, saving me from responding. We joined the throngs of exiting passengers, and I clutched my Harrods and Harvey Nichols shopping bags in both hands as I stood to the right on the escalator at the Baker Street tube station. Industrious Brits jostled by on the left, climbing the steep steps. I turned to Arabella, who was equally burdened with shopping bags.

“It’s so civilized here. I wish they’d adopt the whole ‘queue to the right’ thing in the States. Although most motorists haven’t yet got the hang of faster traffic to the left and slower traffic on the right on the highway. At least driving through Atlanta gives me the chance to practice all my cusswords.”

“How lovely.” We reached the top of the long escalator and lifted our bags as we left through the turnstiles to Marylebone Road, emerging into a steady drizzle.

“There’s a Marks and Sparks to Go here if you want something sweet.”

I pulled the hood of my raincoat over my head. “We just had lunch, Arabella. How someone as small as you can eat so much, I’ll never know.”

We walked past the M&S shop sign toward the long line of tourists waiting in the rain to get into Madame Tussauds wax museum.

“Have you heard from Colin?” I asked, keeping my voice nonchalant. “Last night he said he would bring up a box of handbags from the storeroom and the valise from Penelope’s attic this morning before he left for work.”

“Actually, yes. He called to let me know both box and valise were in the guest room. He seemed . . . upset. No, that’s not the right word. Confused, I think. He was very heavy-handed with the pronouns instead of using your name. It was all ‘she,’ ‘her,’ and ‘that woman,’ so I could tell he was quite confused about something. What on earth happened?”

My face reddened, and I tried to hide it by walking faster. Arabella quickened her pace and grinned when she peered under my hood. “You’re blushing! Does that mean he kissed you?”

I scowled at her. “No.”

If I’d thought that would shut her up, I was hugely mistaken. Instead she squealed, “You kissed him! Oh, that’s marvelous, Maddie.”

I marched silently beside her as we passed the Royal Academy of Music, the muted strains of a trumpet solo coming through a window that was partially open despite the drizzle. She was practically running, trying to keep up with me, but I didn’t slow until we’d reached the steps to our building and the porter was holding open the door. I did take a moment to scan the front drive to check for Colin’s Land Rover. I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed when I didn’t spot it.

Never one to miss anything, Arabella said, “It’s not here. I could message him if you like and tell him—”

“No.” My voice sounded harsher than I’d intended. I smiled my apology. “We don’t need him right now. We’re two intelligent women who are more than capable of sorting through old purses and a dusty valise.”

She grinned. “Agreed.”

We stepped out of the lift, and I followed Arabella into the foyer—then nearly ran into her. She’d stopped three paces into the room and was focused on Laura standing in the doorway to the reception room, watching something.

Laura faced us with a finger to her lips before turning her attention back to the room. Moving silently, we peered inside. Precious stood at the window, in front of the desk strewn with Sophia’s letters. She wore a midnight blue sequined gown. A hangtag I remembered making dangled from a shoulder strap. Arabella had already decided that she wanted the dress front and center in the exhibition, but I’d yet to get the full story behind it from Precious. It still fit her tall and slim body, but the opening in the back showed the soft pale skin of an old woman. It made her seem vulnerable somehow, like an animal showing its belly in surrender.

Letters lay scattered on the floor and chair, the drawers of the desk pulled open like turned-out pants pockets. “I can’t find it. I can’t find it.” Precious muttered the words over and over, her hands swiping through the messy pile on the desk, scattering the remaining letters.

“I’ll give her another moment, see if she calms down on her own,” Laura said quietly. “This happens sometimes, and I’ve found that if I interrupt her, it upsets her more.”

“Where is it?” Precious shouted, slamming one of the drawers shut before pulling it open again, surprising me with her strength.

“Is she dreaming?” I asked.

Laura shook her head. “No. She’s completely conscious. Just . . . off in her own world. She’s been looking for something for nearly fifteen minutes. She must have had a dream last night that jarred her memory.”

I dropped my packages on the ground. “I think I know what she’s looking for.” I walked silently into the room, toward the fireplace mantel, where I’d left Graham’s photograph. I carefully picked it up, then approached Precious.

She looked at it for a long moment, then took it from me. “Thank you.” She blinked as if just then realizing who I was. “It’s not mine. I’ve been keeping it for a friend.”

“For Eva?”

Precious nodded. “Yes. When you find her, would you please make sure she gets it?”

“Of course,” I said.

She flipped the photo over in her palm and looked as if she was seeing the writing on the back for the first time.

“I’m curious,” I said. “It’s a woman’s handwriting. Is it Eva’s?”

She glanced down at the photograph, then looked up at me with a wobbly smile. “Do you like my gown?”

I shared a quick look with Arabella. “It’s beautiful. And it looks beautiful on you.”

She smiled. “I wore it that Christmas. Before . . .” She frowned, searching for her words. “Before the bombs started.”

“And it still fits you so nicely,” Laura said, bustling into the room. “Now, let’s go get you changed into something more comfortable, all right?”

We watched as Laura led Precious from the room, Precious’s shoulders as straight as if she were getting ready to walk down the runway of a designer’s showroom.

Oscar, apparently alerted to my presence, bounded into the room and began growling at me. Arabella picked him up and put him in the kitchen before returning and grabbing my arm. “Come on—let’s go open up those purses. Going through my own out-of-season bags is its own trip down memory lane. I can only imagine what Precious’s might be like.”

Leaving our shopping bags in the foyer, we headed toward the first bedroom. “My little brother Joey once kept a chicken breast he’d dissected in science class in his backpack over the summer,” I said. “It took my dad three months to find out where the smell was coming from.”

Arabella wrinkled her nose. “I can’t tell you how happy I am at this moment that I have only sisters.”

In the spare bedroom, the antique leather valise lay opened on the bed, displaying a mishmash of clothing, papers, costume jewelry, and cosmetics. It all looked like something you might find in the back of a dresser drawer, an excavation by layers of someone’s past. I could imagine Colin opening the valise to verify that its contents weren’t anything important, and then leaving them for Arabella and me to sort through.

Arabella picked out a pair of high-heeled sandals from the valise, slipped off her own shoes, and tried to put her foot into one of them. “Too small—you try.”

I slipped out of my flats and buckled the sandals on my feet, then winced as I stood up. “Some of the shoes we’ve found have fit me perfectly, and others have been a little too snug. Sadly, these are of the snug variety, which is a shame. They’re almost brand-new and really swanky.”

“Swanky?” Arabella said with a smile as I handed them back to her.

“It’s what my aunt Lucinda says to describe anything she considers fancy enough for her to wear, usually involving ruffles and sequins.”

“I’ll remember that,” Arabella said as she placed the shoes next to the door. “This is my keeper pile—items that I think should be considered for the exhibition.” She turned back to the bed and surveyed the piles. “Aunt Penelope is always threatening to clean that attic. It will take an absolute age—some of the stuff has been stored there for aeons. There’s an actual suit of armor in the back. I remember Colin making it talk when we were children playing up there when we weren’t supposed to. Scared the wits out of me.”

The image of Colin playing ventriloquist with a suit of armor made me grin, and I wasn’t fast enough to hide it from Arabella.

With a matching grin, she spun the case around so it faced her. “Looks like there were initials stenciled on here at some point, but they’ve been rubbed off. Can’t tell what they were.”

I looked where she indicated, examining the smooth leather of the case and the heavy marks of the mostly scratched-out gold-stenciled monogram. “It looks old but not worn. Definitely not worn enough to justify the monogram being scratched over like this.”

“Almost like it was deliberately removed.” Arabella straightened, examining the contents more closely. “A bunch of junk, really. Look—more menus.” She reached into the valise, pulled up a small stack, and screwed up her eyebrows as she flipped through them. “It makes me think that whoever this belonged to might have been a tourist—or, if not a tourist, then someone new to the kind of life one would have to dine frequently at these hotels. Look—the Dorchester, Claridge’s, the Ritz, and several from the Savoy. I can’t imagine anyone who wasn’t starstruck thinking to collect them.”

“Good point. Which makes me think it wasn’t Sophia. She likely ate at places like that on a regular basis. Plus, she had her memory box from her debutante year and her album full of mementos, so I don’t think this is hers.”

“Apparently the owner of the valise was also a memento keeper.” One by one, Arabella plucked out loose ticket stubs from theaters and cinemas, a telephone charge receipt from the Savoy, two ticket stubs from the gardens at Kew, and a vintage Selfridges receipt for a pair of kid leather ladies’ gloves.

I pulled out the remaining items and placed them on the bed next to the first pile while Arabella put her hand inside to make sure we’d removed everything. “There’s a label stitched into the lining at the top.” Arabella bent her head to see better. “Hand me your phone.”

She peered inside, shining the flashlight upward, then stood, shaking her head. “Whoever stitched this on was a very good seamstress—I’ve never seen such tight stitches that weren’t done by a machine. It’s especially hard when one has to look upside down while stitching. I’m afraid if I try to pull it off, it will rip the entire lining out. I’ll need scissors.”

“I just bought a pair—I’ll be right back.”

When I returned, Arabella had her hands on her hips and was frowning at the valise.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, handing her the scissors.

She dipped her head into the opening of the bag. Her voice was slightly muffled as she sawed at the threads. “It’s just odd that the address label is hidden. Usually people put it in a more visible spot, so that if the case is lost, it can be returned to its owner.”

I waited a moment. Then she shouted and straightened, holding something in the palm of her hand. She stared down at a rectangle of fabric, her brows knitted in concentration. “I have no idea who this is. What do you make of it?” She handed it to me.

K. Nash, Quayside Cottage, Bournemouth, Dorset

“Well, it’s definitely an address label of some sort—written long before postal codes.”

“I think those started in the late fifties or early sixties,” Arabella offered.

I nodded, studying the block letters. “It’s hard to tell, but I’d say this looks more like it was written by a woman than a man.”

“Although because they printed, it’s impossible to tell if it matches the handwriting on any of the letters we’ve seen.”

“It might not even be related to Sophia or Precious at all. But we should still check it out, don’t you think? Maybe this is the missing link to finding Eva.”

“Unlikely, but never say never, right?” Arabella beamed. “I think you and Colin should take a holiday weekend to Bournemouth, see what you can find. It’s beautiful this time of year, and you can show Colin what you look like in a bikini.”

“For your information, I don’t own a bikini. Besides, I’m sure we can find out about Quayside Cottage and K. Nash online, without having to actually get in the car.”

“Not nearly as much fun as a road trip.” She stuck her hand back in the valise. “I guess it’s a good thing you and Colin aren’t speaking to each other. You can’t tell him that I accidentally cut a hole in the lining.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. It doesn’t look like it’s valuable, and as you pointed out, it’s not really visible, anyway. Chances are that K. Nash is long dead, too. He or she won’t be looking for it.”

“True.” She leaned over and lifted a bundle of silk stockings from one of the piles. “I don’t think it’s a he. These are real silk—can you imagine the luxury of wearing silk stockings?”

“No,” I said. “But until you forced me to go shopping today, I couldn’t imagine wearing anything but jeans.” I frowned, looking at the bundle. “Wasn’t silk rationed during the war? So it could be used as parachutes or something? And women drew seams on the backs of their bare legs, so it looked like they were wearing something.”

“K. Nash must have been a hoarder, then,” Arabella said matter-of-factly. “Or maybe she dealt in the black market.” She raised her eyebrows. “These look like they’ve never been worn. Maybe she was a model, like Precious or Eva. Didn’t Precious say that Madame Lushtak required them to wear silk stockings?”

“Yes, she did. Let’s ask her if she knew of a fellow model named K. Nash. Not sure why her valise would be in the attic at Hovenden Hall, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Arabella picked up the empty valise to put on the floor, then quickly set it down. “We missed something—there’s a paper stuck between the bottom and the side. Hang on.”

She reached inside and pulled out what looked like another receipt, folded in half, the ink bleeding through to the back. Arabella’s eyebrows arched. “K. Nash certainly had money to burn. This is from a furrier on Bond Street—one mink coat, for the very reasonable price of three hundred pounds sterling.”

I took the paper from her and scanned it, focusing my eyes on the amount at the bottom, double underlined. “Seriously? That’s a lot of money—now and then. Whoever this K. Nash was, she appears to have been rolling in the dough. No date but definitely before PETA, right?”

“Definitely.” Arabella brushed her hands together as if she were finished. “Come on, Maddie—let’s go hang up your new clothes and put away those blue jeans.”

“We’re not done, Arabella, remember? We still have the purses.”

“Oh, right. I’d like to match some of them up to the outfits we’ve already chosen for the exhibition. A nice contrast to the gas masks that Mia has managed to secure on loan from a military museum. Some are in brown boxes with strings for straps. Not very attractive but necessary. Others are a little more high-end and decorative. Mia managed to find an Arden pigskin holdall—worth a small fortune even then and so pretty. Gas masks were carried everywhere, regardless of what a person was wearing. Definitely a fashion look for the period.”

We restuffed the valise and placed it on the floor, then picked up the box full of old purses—lots of sequins and velvet and paste jewels—and dumped them on the bed. There were about twenty or so, mostly small, evening-sized. Apparently the oversized-bag craze wasn’t yet a twinkle in a designer’s eye.

The first three purses we opened were empty, but the fourth and sixth yielded lipsticks, both red, and chalky with age. Arabella found a compact and a lacy white handkerchief in a black velvet ball-shaped purse with a rhinestone clasp and a gold chain strap.

“This is lovely,” Arabella said, placing the strap on her wrist and parading the purse about. “Definitely one for the exhibition. Then I’m going to beg Precious for it. It’s very ‘swanky.’”

“Aunt Lucinda would approve.” I reached for a beaded bag with most of its beads missing, leaving red satin bald spots on one side. Inside, I found a single page of card stock, folded in half. “It’s a cocktail menu from the Savoy,” I said, admiring the bold vintage fonts and the ingredients and instructions for an absinthe cocktail. “I wish it hadn’t been folded—now there’s a crease in the middle. It’s so pretty, and I’d love to have it framed.”

“What’s that on the back?” Arabella asked.

I flipped it over. In the white space between the Washington Cocktail and the Waterbury Cocktail someone had handwritten in ink: Jsi v nebezpečí. Utíkej!

Frowning, I asked, “What language is that? Hungarian?”

Arabella shook her head. “I don’t know. I think it might be Czech.” She met my gaze. “Isn’t there an app for that?”

“There is,” I said, pulling out my phone. “I don’t know how accurate it is, but I will say it’s been useful in my travels.” I opened up the translation app and pointed my camera at the words, waiting for the miracle of modern technology to do its work.

Then I stared at the screen for a long moment before Arabella moved to stand next to me.

I forced the words out of my tightening throat. “It says, ‘You’re in danger. Run.’”

Our eyes met before we both turned toward a sound in the doorway. Precious was there, in one of her peach-colored lounge sets, her face the color of the walls. She seemed to melt where she stood, her legs collapsing under her. I caught her before she hit the floor, a name on her lips as she fell. Alex.