Colin, having learned that Mr. Neville’s luggage had not yet been sent to his brother, employed all of his skills in the art of persuasion to convince the hotel manager that we needed to search it. It proved no small feat, as Monsieur Fortier showed admirable dedication to respecting the privacy of his guests. In the end my husband convinced him (it would take the strength of a demigod at least to resist his dizzying logic), but the manager asked that we keep our actions quiet. We agreed and followed him to a storage room in the basement of the hotel.
“I would never allow this if Monsieur Neville were still alive,” Monsieur Fortier said.
“Of course not,” Colin replied. “This is an unusual situation, and I very much appreciate your discretion.”
“I should perhaps tell you…” The man hesitated, and rubbed his hands together. “You are not the first to have asked to inspect Monsieur Neville’s luggage.”
“Who else did?” I asked.
“Another member of your party. Monsieur Fairchild.”
“Did you allow him to do so?”
“I most certainly did not,” Monsieur Fortier said. “Unlike you, he had no sort of official identification. As I have already told you, even with that I would have hesitated were Monsieur Neville still alive. I take the privacy of my guests seriously.”
“You are a good man,” Colin said.
Mr. Neville’s luggage consisted of a single trunk and a small suitcase. We had the keys to them both—they had been in his room and Monsieur Fortier had kept them in a separate envelope to send to his brother, along with the bags. We started by opening the suitcase. Its contents were unremarkable: toiletry items, a shaving kit, several books, a pair of binoculars, and various other personal items. I flipped through the books while Colin applied himself to inspecting the trunk.
“Clothes, boots, hats. Surprisingly, some pieces of local pottery. I suppose he bought them as souvenirs.”
“That is quite sad,” I said.
“It is. Anything between the pages of the books?”
“Nothing yet. There is a packet of writing paper and envelopes, but it does not look as if any of them have been used. I wonder to whom he had planned to write?”
“You are picturing him as lonely only because he has no family of which to speak—evidenced by the decision to bury him here,” Colin said. “That does not mean he did not have a life full of friends.”
“Did he have a sweetheart, do you know?” I asked.
“I do not. Bainbridge would be a better source of information than I,” Colin said. “I did not know him well.”
“Here’s something,” I said. “A pressed carnation at the bottom of the case.” I held it up. “Yellow, just like those Augustus always wears in his buttonhole. It was protected by a folded piece of tissue paper.”
“In a book?”
“No. Under the box that held his shaving kit. I imagine whoever packed the case either did not know what to do with it or didn’t notice it. I wonder if Mr. Neville had a particular interest in botany?”
“Seems unlikely,” Colin said. “I believe him to have been nearly as dedicated as Bainbridge to the pursuit of useless behavior.”
“Do you think we should ask Jeremy about any of this? Would it be useful or merely serve to upset him further?”
“I am at a loss, Emily. I agree this suicide has many odd facets to it, but I am not convinced we are dealing with something more sinister. It is one thing to search for answers when it causes no further harm or leads to justice, but in this case, we may be accomplishing very little while reopening still raw wounds.”
“I wish I knew where he got the strychnine.”
“Would it really make any difference?”
“It might.” I sighed. “Seeing any evidence of melancholy or despair would matter more.”
“I do not want you to feel uneasy about this,” Colin said, stroking my cheek with his hand. “I shall ring my colleagues at Scotland Yard and ask them to question Neville’s servants in London. I may not agree with you that there is anything of note to be discovered, but over the years I have come to respect your instincts, Emily.”
* * *
When we had completed our study of Mr. Neville’s belongings, we retired to the lounge, rather than the terrace, hoping for a bit of a respite from the rest of our party. I was in dire need of the fortification of tea, but Colin ordered a whisky. We had collected our mail and messages from the desk, and I was sorting through them. Mrs. Wells had sent word that she had booked a table at a restaurant in the old part of town for half nine, and Colin and I decided we would stroll over on our own rather than join the others in the planned parade of carriages. After dealing with the rest of the mail—nothing of consequence save a letter from Nanny telling us that the boys were thriving, but that Richard had knocked over and broken a Ming vase (the perils of having toddlers in a house)—I left a note for Mrs. Wells informing her that we would meet them there.
The lateness of the reservation gave us time to retreat to our room for a considerable—and extremely pleasant—interval. When the hour came to dress for dinner, I relinquished myself into Meg’s hands with little enthusiasm. Because we were planning to walk, I thought it best to wear something more practical than a dinner dress, particularly as the fashion of the moment called for long, trailing skirts, and I chose a rose-colored walking costume with a skirt that just skimmed the toes of my comfortable American boots, which were all the rage in London. The matching jacket, neatly tailored, had three-quarter-length sleeves cut perfectly to reveal the profusion of lace on the cuffs of my blouse. I preferred to wear a smart straw hat, trimmed with roses, with the ensemble, but felt it was too casual for the evening, and instead selected a dashing little toque, made from taffeta and decorated with ostrich feathers.
Colin studied my appearance when he saw me. “Do you think that is quite appropriate?”
“It is a bit unusual, but practical as we are walking, and I do not think Amity or her mother would object to my appearing less fashionable and elegant than either of them.”
Our stroll to the restaurant was an extremely pleasant one, as the night was fine, the stars bright in the sky above us, and the air still warm. When we arrived at the restaurant, it was a quarter of an hour before our table was due to be ready—we had wanted to give ourselves plenty of time—so we asked the proprietor of the establishment, who greeted us at the door, if we might take a seat near the entrance while we waited.
“You are here with the Wells party, oui?” The man asked. “They are expecting you.”
Rather than being early, we were last to arrive. Not only was everyone else already seated, they were midway through their meat course. “Oh, at last, the Hargreaveses grace us with their presence!” Mrs. Wells exclaimed. “I do hope we have not inconvenienced you by inviting you to dinner.”
“We were not to start at half nine?” Colin asked.
“Half eight,” Mr. Wells said. “Never mind the confusion. Do take a seat.”
Mrs. Wells looked me up and down, clearly displeased with my attire. “I am sorry if our humble gathering does not meet with your ideas of a fashionable dinner.”
“Please don’t think anything of the sort, Mrs. Wells,” I said, sitting at the chair a waiter had pulled out for me. “I truly believed our table was booked for nine thirty.”
“Your mode of dress suggests a complete lack of respect for your hostess,” she said. “Did we force you to abandon some sort of sporting pursuit by asking you to dinner?”
“Em is lovely even in a walking suit,” Jeremy said. “If anything, her understated elegance puts to shame all the finery in Paris.” Mrs. Wells scowled at him.
“Mother, do not be so critical,” Amity said. “Are you quite certain that you wrote the correct time on the Hargreaveses’ card?”
“Of course I did. The rest of us managed to arrive on time and I am hardly new to writing invitations.”
“Please accept my deepest apologies,” Colin said, as the waiter brought us the soup the others would have started with.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if you were behind this, Hargreaves,” Mr. Wells said, his voice all good-natured congeniality. “You have had enough of these formal gatherings, as have I. It’s high time we gentlemen have an excursion of our own. Who will join me on a trip to Monte Carlo tomorrow? The ladies can shop or gossip or whatever strikes their fancy. I am overdue for a spot of gambling.”
“Can’t I come, Daddy?” Amity asked. “You know how I love roulette!”
“Not this time, sugar,” Mr. Wells said. “Gentlemen only.”
“Very well,” Amity said, her lips forming a perfect little pout. “I expect you back no later than eleven o’clock for a moonlight stroll and a surprise.”
“What surprise?” Mrs. Wells asked, squaring her broad shoulders and pinching her lips together in a manner that reminded me of a fish.
“I have not yet decided that, Mother,” Amity said.
It seemed that our lack of punctuality was no longer of much interest, so I applied myself to my soup. Jeremy, who was seated next to me, apologized for his in-laws-to-be.
“You must understand,” he said, “that Mrs. Wells views you as a threat to her daughter’s happiness. She railed against you for a good half hour before you arrived.”
“That is not very civilized.”
“She is American, Em, not civilized.”
“Amity doesn’t agree with her, does she?”
“Not at all,” he said. “She was your staunchest defender. I am afraid I had to remain rather silent.”
“Of course,” I said.
“It was a bore, but I consoled myself by remembering that once I am a respectable married man, you can take me as a lover.”
“Jeremy! What if someone else heard you say such a thing?”
“Yes, right, must remember: be more discreet.”
For the first time since I had arrived in Cannes, I started to relax. Jeremy was back to his old self, Amity and I were becoming friendly acquaintances and I hoped that our belated arrival at this dinner would mark the last uncomfortable incident on our trip. On this last point, I could not have been more wrong.
* * *
Colin received a message from Scotland Yard the next morning before he was to depart for Monte Carlo. Their questioning of Mr. Neville’s servants and an assortment of his friends revealed nothing to suggest that he was suffering from melancholy or any sort of disorder that would have led to suicide. Furthermore, his finances were solid and his bills all paid. Nothing suggested he was a man on the brink of self-destruction. I was explaining all this, and my theories about the case, to Margaret over breakfast. There were hydrangeas on the tables in the dining room that morning, blue and pink, and the air coming in from the terrace blew hot. We were the only two of the ladies yet down, and I wanted to take advantage of our solitude.
“You had better not let Colin hear you call it a case,” she said, sprinkling fleur de sel over her eggs.
“We have no evidence solid enough for him to think this merits investigation,” I said.
“To be fair, we don’t.”
“Correct. But do you agree that something is amiss?” I asked.
“I do and I am wounded that you did not bring me with you to question the apothecaries.”
“I will more than make up for that today. The gentlemen have already left for Monte Carlo,” I said, pouring myself a third cup of tea, “so we can set my plan into motion. Mr. Wells hired dancers to perform at his party. Amity believed they had come from Paris, but after making a discreet inquiry, I have learned they are local girls. I have arranged for us to speak to them this morning and, later, we must find and interview everyone else who assisted with the festivities that evening.”
“We cannot let Amity or Mrs. Wells know we are doing this,” Margaret said.
“No. I have left a note for Cécile, asking that she keep them occupied. We will owe her a great debt after this.”
“I thought you had started to like Amity,” Margaret said, poking at her eggs. “Although I couldn’t quite understand why. She is awful to you.”
“Jeremy said she defended me against her mother last night.”
“That is true in every fundamental way, but I still do not trust her.”
“I am doing my best to befriend her, but it has proven more difficult than I expected,” I said, spreading ginger marmalade on a piece of toast.
“That, my dear girl, is because she is, at heart, vapid.” Margaret patted her lips with her napkin and folded it neatly before placing it on the table. “When do the dancers expect us?”
“We will have to leave almost at once if we are to avoid running into Amity and Mrs. Wells. The girls will meet us at a café that is nowhere near the casino. I thought it would be preferable to speak to them away from their place of employment.” I finished the last of my tea.
“This, Emily, is the only real fun we have had on this dreadful trip.”
“You didn’t enjoy Fort Royal and the prison?” I asked.
“I did, until that nonsense with you getting trapped in the cell.” She furrowed her brow. “I am convinced there are extremely strange things afoot here, but I can pinpoint neither their source nor their intended goal.”
“Let us hope the dancers provide illumination,” I said. “If nothing else, I am certain they will be amusing.”
Amity had begun to think breakfast would never end. The day was already unbearably hot, and Birdie even more insufferable than the temperature in the hotel dining room. Emily and Margaret had abandoned them, rushing off even before the others had made it downstairs.
“They left, just like that, only leaving a note? And didn’t even invite us to join them?” Birdie’s face was all puffed up and red. Moments like these reminded Amity that her mother had never really left behind her childhood days spent on a ranch in Montana; she would have quite happily roped Emily like an unruly steer if she were here now, and, somehow, would insist to Amity that there was nothing inappropriate in the act. There was no use in answering her mother’s inane question. It was the third time she had posed it. The first time, Amity had replied. The second time, Madame du Lac had made an attempt. Now, so far as Amity was concerned, it was Christabel’s turn, and she knew her sweet friend would not let her down. She scooped up the last bite of kippers from her plate and rose from the table as Christabel spoke.
“Oh, Mrs. Wells, I believe they have done us a favor,” Christabel said. “Are you really of a mind to visit Roman ruins on such a warm day? I had so very much hoped we could stroll through town and peruse the shops, perhaps find a quiet spot for tea. How would we have begged off joining them if we had been here when they set off?”
“It was impolite of them not to include us in their excursion,” Birdie said, pulling on her gloves and adjusting her enormous hat. “The fact that we are fortunate not to be out with them is irrelevant.”
“I do not quite understand Emily,” Amity said. “I like her so very much, but I am afraid she is not much fond of me, and that brings me great sadness. I should never want to come between her and Jeremy. I know how much he values their friendship, and I am doing everything possible to grow close to her myself.”
“That is very generous of you, Mademoiselle Wells,” Madame du Lac said, casting a crushing glance at Birdie’s hat before adjusting her own and picking up her parasol. “Shall we depart?”
As they passed the front desk, the clerk called out, saying that he had a package for Amity. “Lady Emily Hargreaves left it for you.”
“How lovely!” Amity said, and then turned to her companions. “You won’t mind if I delay us just a moment so that I can open it?” There were no objections. Amity tore at the strings around the box and then lifted the lid. Her face went pale and she swayed.
“What is it?” Madame du Lac asked, putting an arm around the girl and steadying her.
“I was talking about this hat just yesterday morning,” Amity said. “I had seen it in a shop window and had thought to buy it today.” She showed the others the sad contents of the box: a beautiful hat smashed almost beyond recognition.
“Why would she do that?” Christabel asked.
“I do not know.” Amity’s voice trembled. “Have I offended her in some way? I have done nothing but try to befriend her.”
Madame du Lac marched back to the desk and demanded to know who had delivered the box. “Did Lady Emily leave it personally?”
“She was standing right in front of me,” he said, “with the box just to the side.”
“And she asked you to give it to Mademoiselle Wells?”
“It was clearly labeled, as you can see. I was in the midst of helping several other guests—morning is a busy time and we had several parties checking out.”
“So Lady Emily did not speak to you directly about the box?” Madame du Lac asked.
“No, I cannot remember that she did, but it was evident that the box was hers. It was right next to her.”
“Was she handing in her key, perhaps?” Madame du Lac asked.
“She did leave her key,” the clerk said. “And the box.”
“The label is not written in Kallista’s hand,” Madame du Lac said, turning back to the ladies.
“I do not see how that matters,” Birdie said, puffing up her chest. “She is insulting my daughter. I feel that we should ask her to leave Cannes at once. If this engagement is not something she is capable of celebrating—”
“That is quite enough, Madame Wells,” Madame du Lac said. “Kallista would never have done this. Someone left the box on the desk—”
“Just when your friend happened to be standing there?” Birdie asked. The two ladies could not have looked more different, Madame du Lac slender and elegant, Birdie built like a battle-axe.
“I have no doubt the timing was deliberate.”
“As hard as I find it to believe that Emily would do such a thing, are we to believe there is someone else bent on hurting both Emily and Amity?” Christabel’s voice almost trembled. “I cannot give that theory any credence.”
“I am afraid, my friends, that I have lost the heart for shopping,” Amity said. “Would any of you object if I stayed behind? I should like to lie down.”
“We will all stay with you,” Christabel said.
“No, I could not bear to know that I had kept you all from any fun. Go, please. Perhaps I could meet you later for tea?”
After consulting with the concierge, who recommended a tea shop, they agreed on a time, but no one felt right leaving Amity alone. She insisted however, asking only one thing: that they remove the destroyed hat.
“I do not think I could stand to see it again.”
Madame du Lac picked up the box and took it back to the desk, speaking quietly to the clerk before she returned to Amity’s side. “We ought not allow it to go out with the rubbish, Mademoiselle Wells. Someone is trying to torment you, and this is our only clue to the person’s identity.”
Tears flooded Amity’s eyes. “A clue? Is it not obvious what happened? You cannot believe your friend would do such a thing, even when the proof is in front of you? Have I done something to offend you, Madame du Lac? To make you think I do not merit even basic kindness?”
“Do not be foolish, Mademoiselle Wells,” Madame du Lac said. “I find you a quite delightful sort of young lady. Even if I did not, I should object strongly to anyone harassing you in such a despicable way. My experience has taught me, though, that in these cases the obvious solution is not always the correct one. Monsieur Hargreaves will be able—”
“Her husband?” Birdie balked. “Of course he will take the side of his wife.”
“You do not know Monsieur Hargreaves, Madame Wells. If you did, you would be fully aware that should he find anyone—even his wife—guilty of a crime, he would let nothing stand in the way of his bringing her to justice.”
“I cannot believe he would believe his wife guilty of even the smallest crime, no matter what the truth,” Birdie said. “He dotes on her in a most sickening fashion.”
“You could not be more wrong,” Madame du Lac said, her tone sharp. “Monsieur Hargreaves would never shield the guilty. Truth and honor matter to him more than anything. Do not, I beg you, make such slanderous accusations about him again.” She turned on her heel and marched out of the lobby, back to the lounge, without so much as giving Birdie another glance.