Page 27 of The Midnight Carousel

Laurent walks briskly through Silver Kingdom. If he is quick, there is time for a detour before dinner. In the dark, with only the light streaming from the big house to guide him, he takes extra care not to stumble. Even so, he reaches the carousel in record time.

He is energized by the information Agent O’Connell shared this afternoon.

That Clementine Pickford rode the horse with the blue diamond on its forehead leaves him in no doubt that all the disappearances are connected, which means there must be an unknown accomplice out there.

Like his bosses, however, the American authorities have no interest in any crime that did not take place on their own soil.

‘I can’t see the relevance,’ Agent O’Connell claimed as they sat side by side on their usual bench in Columbus Park, a spacious oasis of greenery in the city that reminds him of the Parc de Belleville.

Laurent suspects that his counterparts on this side of the Atlantic are too involved with their own recent breakthrough to consider any other leads.

The news is not public knowledge yet, but the Bureau is about to pour all its resources into locating the Wadham family somewhere in the east of the country after discovering that Billy’s father was Beau Armitage’s previous tailor.

It is hoped that Mr Wadham can shed some light on the dealings between the two men.

This leaves Laurent alone to unearth any link the industrialist might have to France.

To Victor. Having had no luck looking through old newspapers, Laurent has begun tracing Beau Armitage’s associates in the hope of ascertaining if and when the man might have travelled to France.

Several ex-secretaries have already been questioned by Laurent.

Miss Lewis was in the man’s employment for two months of hell , as she put it, during which time she was forbidden from leaving work before midnight.

Softly spoken Miss Archibald lasted three weeks, leaving in tears after he accused her of stealing a notepad.

Mrs Gillespie, a buxom woman with flame-red hair, was fired for asking for a raise.

All three women seemed perfectly amenable to Laurent, but were unable to recall any foreign travel that Mr Armitage might have undertaken.

Miss Lewis mentioned the name of an ex-business partner who might know more details, however.

Thus all he has gleaned so far is that there is someone else to interview, and the industrialist has a tendency to fall out with people.

Hoping now that another look at the carousel itself might prove fruitful, Laurent strides over the platform.

Then he stops, peering closely. Something is different.

The blanket is loose and fastened sloppily to one side.

He spots this discrepancy because he wrapped the fabric himself and tied a specific double knot at the top in which the ends are tucked back under, as taught to him by his mother when they built make-believe castles under the dining table with sheets.

It means that someone has tampered with the protective covering. But who would do this? And why?

It is a surprise to see other guests assembled around the dining table, since Laurent believed he was the only person invited to dine at Fairweather House tonight.

On the one hand, the timing of this party seems distasteful– Miss Marlowe has only recently been released from the lock-up and there is still a child missing, presumed dead.

Then again, the well-to-do are never inclined to abstain from fun out of consideration for others.

‘Here you are, Detective,’ Miss Marlowe says, patting the empty dining chair beside her.

She is positioned at the head of the table with Sir Malcolm at the other end.

Slipping into his seat, Laurent nods to the other three individuals– two men and a glamorous woman– who only briefly pause to acknowledge him before resuming their conversations.

He observes Sir Malcolm whisper in the woman’s ear, after which she cries Oh, darling, stop it , while throwing her head back and roaring with laughter.

‘Apologies for my lateness,’ Laurent says to Miss Marlowe. ‘I thought Sir Malcolm said to arrive at 8.30 p.m.’

‘You’re not late. Everyone else is early. Clearly, they couldn’t wait to enjoy our company.’

He notes there is a defensive edge to her tone. But, having spent some time with her, Laurent knows that it masks a vulnerable side.

‘I would have been here sooner, but I stopped to look at the horse. Did you change the blankets or loosen the knot by any chance?’

For a moment, confusion crosses her face. Then her eyes grow round. ‘No, I didn’t. Are you saying–’

Sir Malcolm taps a dessert spoon against his champagne glass.

‘Let me make the introductions,’ he announces. ‘Everyone, this is Detective Laurent Bisset. Laurent, this young chap is James Squires, my late wife’s nephew. Next to him and opposite you sits my brother, Hugo, and to your right is his delightful wife, Nancy.’

‘You’re here about the grisly disappearances,’ Nancy says, leaning towards Laurent. ‘All the way from Paris. I’ve asked Hugo to take me there many times, but he’s such a spoil-sport that he absolutely refuses.’

Nancy pouts, using the opportunity to finish her drink. Seconds later, a sombre-faced footman steps forward and quietly replenishes the glass.

‘Yes, my dear, because we all know that were you to be let loose in Paris, I would be bankrupted within two days. It isn’t known as the capital of fashion for nothing.’

Although Hugo laughs, there is a glint in the man’s eyes. He turns to Laurent.

‘I hear there’s a new lead. Mr Armitage knew the tailor, apparently.’

From the corner of his eye, Laurent sees Maisie tense. Evidently, no one has apprised her of this development.

‘Indeed. I was told just this afternoon,’ he agrees, careful not to reveal anything more.

Nancy rolls her eyes. ‘Yes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything,’ she chimes in.

‘Everyone in Chicago is linked to someone else. Billy’s father was the best tailor in the city– Hugo’s suits haven’t been the same since his family upped sticks– and Mr Wadham knew all of us, as well as the servants and Arnold, so that doesn’t prove a thing. ’

Laurent files this information in his head. From where he is sitting, the outline of the carousel is visible, shrouded in a darkness that lends it a greater air of mystery.

He notices that Hugo and Sir Malcolm share a look.

‘Come, come, Nancy, no need to throw a spanner in the works,’ Sir Malcolm replies in a jolly voice, although his creased brow suggests that he feels anything but. ‘Let’s leave it to the authorities to draw up theories. Police business is complicated. Isn’t that right, Laurent?’

Laurent nods, although he has a distinct feeling that the appearance of a suspect– any suspect– suits the Randolph brothers if it means they can keep their business open.

‘So if you’re a French detective, what exactly are you doing in America?’ James asks.

Stocky and tall, the man is built like a pugilist. Laurent has already noticed that throughout the conversation, James’s eyes flick repeatedly to Miss Marlowe.

‘There are unresolved questions from my investigation in Paris that are tied to the cases here.’

‘Well, let’s hope you get the answers you’re looking for quickly. I’m sure you must be looking forward to returning home,’ James replies smoothly.

Not entirely , would be Laurent’s honest answer. The absence from his child is a sorrow, of course. But he has barely thought of his wife, the peaceful solitude of his bachelor days returning to bring a lightness to his existence.

‘But of what importance are my wishes when there are children still missing?’ he responds, having picked up on an undercurrent of unfriendliness from the young man. As a consequence, Laurent does not care to share that he is due to leave America in ten days.

Nancy studies her varnished nails. ‘Oh, let’s not spoil dinner with talk of dead children.’

As Sir Malcolm chokes on his drink, Hugo fixes his wife with a sharp look.

It is enough to silence not just her but the entire room, which is plunged into awkwardness.

Fortunately, a servant arrives with a platter of breaded shrimp on a bed of dressed lettuce and proceeds to serve the diners.

Conversation between the brothers turns to the subject of old acquaintances in England, while Nancy ignores the shrimp and wanders over to the drinks cabinet to help herself to a tall glass of orange juice mixed with an equal part of vodka in place of the starter.

The marinade sauce is more fiery than Laurent is accustomed to, and his eyes water.

Miss Marlowe stabs a shrimp with her fork. He notices she lifts the food to her mouth, takes a small bite and returns the rest to her plate, uneaten.

‘This is too spicy for you also, mademoiselle?’ he asks her.

‘I’m used to it,’ she replies.

Perhaps she has lost her appetite because she is still troubled by the carousel.

Her talk of curses has Laurent concerned.

It is as nonsensical as Ouija boards, seances and the like.

If she is not careful, Miss Marlowe is at risk of spiralling downwards.

He saw this sort of sorry decline in his own mother.

With the other diners talking amongst themselves, it feels to Laurent like he and this woman are alone in the room.

‘The accomplice will be found,’ he assures her. ‘The Bureau are convinced Mr Armitage is the culprit. If it is not him, I will continue the search.’

She looks at him. ‘You think I imagined what I saw, don’t you?’

Hesitating, he tries to find the correct words to talk her out of her illogical belief, without causing offence.