Page 35 of The Midnight Carousel
It is often this way with investigations. A lull, a sense of despair, precedes a major advancement. Then an unstoppable momentum takes hold.
The last few days have been a mistral of meetings: Mr Armitage’s previous accountant, five ex-employees, two barbers and, finally, a fourth ex-secretary.
Although Laurent was almost twenty minutes late to his appointment this morning, courtesy of a telegram from Constable Segal that needed a response, Miss McFarlane was still waiting for him in the hotel foyer.
Her eyes teared up when Laurent introduced himself.
Holding the record for Mr Armitage’s longest serving secretary, she had been shocked at his sudden announcement after a year of service that her perfume was too overpowering for an office environment.
As a result, she couldn’t wait to spill the beans on her former employer.
‘He never even gave me the chance to wash it off,’ she sniffed, burying her reddening nose in a lace handkerchief.
It is a staggering piece of information, and could not be better timed, since Laurent has only three days left in America.
Now he watches Agent O’Connell cross the park to their usual bench.
Laurent can tell from his jaunty walk that the man is returning from Philadelphia in triumph.
He discloses his own good news first, earns a pat on the back from the agent, and then sits back, all ears, as O’Connell shares the lengthy story of Mr Wadham.
Apparently the tailor had crafted a suit from the finest silk for Mr Armitage, only to be accused of using inferior material when the bill was presented.
Refusing to pay, Armitage had threatened harm to the entire Wadham family if the tailor pursued litigation.
Not believing anyone could be so petty, Mr Wadham filed a complaint in court anyway.
This was two days before the children’s party at Fairweather House that he had mentioned in passing while the suit in question was being measured up.
‘With this and the information you’ve just given me about his links to France, I think we can have another crack at interviewing Armitage tomorrow. Possibly, his lawyer will advise him to give a proper account of himself. We might even get a confession. And an understanding of where…’
The agent’s voice tails off, and Laurent understands. The two men shake hands warmly before parting ways.
Laurent is filled with a sense of satisfaction. It was not so long ago that O’Connell seemed disinterested in the link to the French investigations. Now they are integral to the Bureau’s own case.
That evening Laurent stands near the carousel, sketching its likeness.
The park’s visitors have drifted home, and the place is quiet save for the distant sound of Silver Kingdom’s Crew playing card games after work.
He can hear raucous laughter, see a glint of a campfire, but they are too far away for him to discern much else.
Laurent has already used a tape measure to note the exact proportions of the machine, and examined the mechanical instructions with the aim of having a diagram for reference when he is back in France.
‘Did you go to art school?’ Maisie asks, peering over his shoulder.
He half turns his head. She is standing so close that he can smell the faint aroma of her skin– lavender, he believes– and see the soft down on her cheeks. His whole body is electrified. Laurent feels his fingers tremble and he almost drops the pencil.
‘I…’ He swallows hard. ‘I did not. My father would not have permitted anything so frivolous.’
He can tell she is thinking this statement through, because she chews on her pretty mouth.
‘Didn’t your mother have a say?’
He is silent. How can Laurent express the truth that his mother’s voice always counted for nothing?
‘Childhood is very frightening,’ she continues almost as if she were in the room with him at the worst times. ‘Before I went to Jesserton, I can’t remember a moment when I wasn’t terrified. Sometimes I worry that if I let myself get too happy, it’ll be taken away and I’ll go back to those days.’
A feeling of sadness overwhelms Laurent that this precious, kind-hearted woman could fear anything.
‘My mother taught me to draw. She taught me everything good about myself,’ he is able to say.
Maisie moves around to face him.
‘Then she must be very proud.’
Laurent hesitates. He has never discussed details of this topic with anyone, not even Odette, who would like nothing more than to feel a closeness to him but is kept at arm’s length, just as Laurent has always done with every woman.
His breathing quickens as he thinks of his mother’s lovely face, and those dark grey eyes tainted with worry.
‘Be a good boy, Laurent,’ she said to him one day while he was preparing his toy soldiers for a fierce battle on her dressing table. ‘Don’t come in, don’t run for help, whatever you hear. Will you do that for Maman?’
Of course, he agreed; he would have agreed to anything she asked of him. To make sure, she studied his eyes with a haunted look. Then, with a kiss on his forehead, she stood up and disappeared into the bathroom.
From the corner of his eye, he can see that Maisie is scrutinizing him with a worried expression. Without pressing for an answer, she lays her hands over his, barely touching, as if she understands everything that Laurent has experienced without words.
‘Perhaps she would be proud,’ he replies quietly. ‘It is just that…’ He struggles to continue. ‘My mother drowned herself in the bath when I was a boy.’
Maisie’s eyes are misty. ‘Laurent…’ she whispers.
She slides her arms around his waist and pulls him into a hug.
Laurent lets his eyelids close as he drops the sketchpad and clings to this woman as though he might break into pieces if he lets go.
They stand together like this for many minutes.
He can feel Maisie’s fingers stroke his back, such soft, soothing movements that his breathing begins to settle.
He loses track of time. After a long while, he loosens his grip and opens his eyes. Sunset has morphed into dusk, and a light display of stars has come out. Maisie leads him by the hand to the carousel and they sit on the edge of the platform.
Here, he talks about his mother spending most days weeping in bed and describes his futile attempts to make her feel better; then he moves on to the emptiness of a childhood without her, the cane his father used to whip him while shouting that he was ashamed to have Laurent as a son.
When he is finished, Maisie begins to speak.
She seems hesitant to share much until he pulls her close to him, his arms shielding her from the wind starting up on the lake.
Then the words flow. He learns that she used to go to bed cold and hungry, her only comfort a little boy called Tommy whom she had to leave behind, that she lost a cherished aunt, and still suffers from the loneliness of feeling that she doesn’t belong.
‘I’ve never told anyone all this,’ she admits, her head resting on his shoulder.
‘Nor I,’ he replies.
She looks up at him. Behind Maisie, the moon glows– almost forming a halo around her head. As they lock eyes, Laurent cups her face and kisses her lips.