Page 36 of The Midnight Carousel

Laurent scours Silver Kingdom until he finds Maisie helping to unload flour at the corndog booth.

‘I wanted you to hear the news from me,’ he says, breathless.

He has been hovering around the police station for the past thirty-six hours, awaiting the outcome of the Bureau’s interrogation of Beau Armitage, and has not seen Maisie since their kiss.

She turns, her eyes brightening when she realizes it is him.

Around them is a swirl of people, and noise from the nearby helter-skelter.

But it is like they are held in a bubble of their own.

The strength of his emotions has taken Laurent by surprise.

Naturally, he is attracted to Maisie, how could he not be?

She is enchanting, with skin the colour of almonds, and graceful curves.

But this is not the animal lust he experiences with his secretary, or the serving girls in the patisserie, or any of the others.

Maisie is not someone he would wish to bed casually.

He has become aware that whenever he is in her presence, it feels like she is reaching inside the most closed part of his soul and gently prising him open.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asks, looking anxious.

He leads her to a quiet area behind the helter-skelter. Placing his hands on her shoulders, Laurent gently explains what Agent O’Connell shared with him an hour ago. Her eyes become round, and she shakes her head in disbelief.

‘So, it’s over,’ she says. ‘Really over. Mr Armitage has confessed to being Victor’s accomplice, and no one else will be taken.’

She repeats his words verbatim, as though she is letting everything permeate her awareness. He notices that her eyes dart nervously to the carousel before returning to him.

‘You appear troubled,’ he remarks.

Maisie gives a small shrug. ‘A confession is strong evidence, I know that, and I should feel relieved, but…’ Her voice is shaky. ‘I’m more bewildered, to be honest. None of it makes sense.’

Laurent can only agree. This case has always been riddled with mystery.

‘Perhaps I can help soothe some of your worries,’ he offers.

From the way in which she straightens her spine, he can tell that she is steeling herself to ask the most logical question first.

‘Billy and Clementine. Are they–’

Even eighteen hours of continuous interrogation– with methods that Laurent guesses were similar to those employed against Victor in France– have not prised from the industrialist an explanation of what has happened to the victims.

‘The Bureau are still searching for them.’

She bites her lip. ‘Has he told the Bureau how he snatched them away? I saw his photograph in the newspaper and I don’t remember seeing his face at the party four years ago.’

Laurent recalls the re-enactment of Chloé Fourtou’s disappearance for the benefit of the court at Victor’s trial, and the fact that no one saw the moment of the abduction nor the seconds afterwards.

‘Not specifically. Agent O’Connell believes that he may have been hiding behind a rock near the shore. My own theory is that it is possible for an abductor to lurk within the carousel’s central cylinder, unseen. Both suggestions were put to Mr Armitage but he refused to answer.’

Maisie looks unconvinced. ‘What about the horse? The strange one? Has he said anything about why it’s important?’

Thus far, the agents have been unable to elicit any details on this link, nor motives either.

‘That also is an ongoing line of enquiry.’ He notes Maisie’s small frown. ‘But there is nothing to be concerned about,’ he adds, hoping to soothe any fear she still holds of the horse being cursed.

Given her worry, Laurent refrains from mentioning that the Bureau was also unable to ascertain from Mr Armitage how he managed to ensure that the victims all chose to sit on the same horse. Since it is increasingly clear that they were targeted, he had hoped to have at least this loose end tied up.

‘I see.’ She gazes into the distance at the carousel’s gold-and-indigo flag, which is just visible above the other rides. ‘But what about the blankets? Isn’t that a worry?’ she probes. ‘Mr Armitage was in custody when they were meddled with, wasn’t he? So it couldn’t have been him.’

This had been Laurent’s concern in the first place. But he considers the fact that there has been no further sign of tampering.

‘On balance, I believe it is probably not relevant. This is often the case– we find and then we discount discoveries.’

They are both silent for a moment, aware what this confession means.

Although not all questions are answered, Laurent has learnt enough to continue the information-gathering in France– pursuing revenge as a motive, following up on when and how Victor and Beau met in Paris, the significance of that particular horse– and he has no excuse to extend his stay.

‘So you leave tomorrow,’ she says.

Laurent feels a sting in his heart. ‘We could write to one another, if you wish?’ he offers.

He notices Maisie pinch her fingers before giving him a faint smile.

‘I would like that very much,’ she agrees. ‘And, in the meantime, you must come to dinner tonight. If you arrive early, we can have cocktails on the patio beforehand.’

‘It sounds wonderful, and provides the perfect opportunity to present you with a gift.’

Laurent swirls his Martini, staring out at a flock of noisy, mid-sized birds dotted along the lake’s shore. The surface gleams like polished silver at this time of evening. Quite beautiful. As the drink slips down his throat, Laurent feels the tension in his shoulders dissolve.

He leans back. From this distance, Silver Kingdom looks tiny, the rides like children’s toys.

But the beauty of the carousel stands out nonetheless.

Little did Laurent know when he signed the paperwork for its sale that he would be travelling halfway across the world to follow it.

But here he is, sitting on a bench next to the loveliest woman he has ever met.

‘Interesting birds,’ he comments.

‘Don’t you have sandpipers in France?’ Maisie asks.

Sandpipers. The name is unfamiliar and he cannot think of the French translation.

‘I have never seen them along the Seine, although curlews are similar’

‘But you know of herons,’ she says. ‘The first time we met, in the interview room when I was in lock-up, you made a heron out of paper. I saw it on the table.’

He is surprised that she noticed. ‘I started making shapes from paper as a boy. My mother loved them.’ He turns his head a fraction to look at Maisie. ‘And your own mother,’ he asks. ‘You really remember nothing?’

She shakes her head, flushing.

‘No. It’s going to sound silly, but I used to imagine she was a queen or a princess or something.

I understand now that it isn’t true,’ she admits.

‘But I still like to think of her as doing something special. My father too. Something noble and brave that made sense of their deaths. It makes me feel better.’

Laurent has been hesitating all day about whether to go through with his idea for Maisie’s gift.

With the assistance of Constable Segal as the man on the ground in Europe, he has researched Maisie’s background and discovered a good deal about her history.

Just this morning, a flurry of information arrived by telegram.

In this moment, however, he realizes that disturbing the past has a time and a place.

Searching through the inner pockets of his jacket, he is careful to avoid the report he has spent all those hours on, and instead he pulls out the flyer for Silver Kingdom he picked up at the ticket office.

It was intended as a souvenir to show Amélie the great American amusement parks, but he can collect a replacement just as easily.

‘It sounds perfectly reasonable,’ he says. ‘And now for your gift. What is your favourite bird?’

Her face lights up. Looking amused, Maisie watches Laurent struggle with bends and folds, turning and manoeuvring the paper, until he is finally able to present her with a wonky cockatoo, resplendent with a fanlike crest.

Soon it is time for dinner. The seconds seem to be travelling at triple the normal speed; the starter and main course are swiftly followed by dessert, with the bare minimum of conversation exchanged between the three diners.

Everyone seems distracted this evening: Sir Malcolm is vacant, Maisie looks downcast, and Laurent has become trapped by a muddle of thoughts.

He imagines that he and Maisie are the owners of Fairweather House, dining like this every evening before retiring to their bedroom and making love through the night.

Then he thinks of Amélie, excited about his return home, and his vow of loyalty to Odette.

‘Come to my study,’ Sir Malcolm mutters to Laurent as the cheese board is removed by the footman.

Maisie chimes in. ‘And then find me in the parlour before you go. I have a gift for you in return for yours.’

Laurent follows Sir Malcolm into a well-proportioned room with a large desk and comfortable leather armchairs. He accepts a crystal glass filled to the brim with brandy.

‘To the conclusion of the case,’ Sir Malcolm toasts.

‘Despite our earlier differences, I appreciate that you didn’t impede the investigation, thus ensuring the matter progressed’– Sir Malcolm appears to be groping for the right words– ‘in the right direction for everyone.’ He lays down his glass. ‘Here’s a little something for you.’

Laurent watches with interest as Sir Malcolm fumbles in his cigar box and pulls out a small brown envelope.

‘There is no need,’ Laurent says quickly, not wishing to know what it is that Sir Malcolm is offering. He hesitates. ‘I would ask two favours of you, however.’

Fishing out the report, he lays it on the desk. Sir Malcolm eyes it with suspicion.

‘I looked into Maisie’s parents,’ Laurent explains. ‘But I decided not to show her the findings. I did not think it would benefit her to add to all the distress she has experienced recently.’

‘Ahh.’

Sir Malcolm reopens the cigar box, but this time he pulls out a cigar and offers one to Laurent, who again declines. Lighting up, he takes a puff and sighs.

‘Her aunt never really talked about the circumstances. She said there was no point looking back and I didn’t like to press.

But it was obvious there was something unpleasant,’ he explains with a pained expression.

‘Many years ago, Maisie did ask me if I knew anything about them, and she seemed upset when I couldn’t give her an answer. ’

‘So, you think she would wish to know?’

Sir Malcolm nods his head from side to side. ‘One day, perhaps. But you are correct– not now.’

Laurent considers the options, then he pushes the report across the desk.

‘So we agree. With something like this, timing is everything,’ he says. ‘I shall trust you to decide when the moment has come.’ He removes a smaller envelope from his jacket pocket. ‘And would you be kind enough to give Maisie this letter tomorrow morning? After I am gone.’

The word gone is like a lead weight on Laurent’s tongue.

‘Of course, old chap. Leave them both with me,’ Sir Malcolm replies. ‘I care very much about Maisie, you know.’

Laurent is relieved. But there is still the problem of James. His own warning from before is insufficient, as he will not be here to follow it up.

‘It is good to hear, because my second favour is about your nephew.’ Laurent pauses in order to choose his next words with care. ‘Your nephew’s interest in Maisie, to be precise. I believe that he has become an annoyance to her.’

Sir Malcolm settles his cigar on the ashtray.

‘No need to fret about James. He has always been a friendly fellow. I’m sure he and Maisie get along fine.’

Sir Malcolm gives a reassuring smile, but Laurent is not so easily brushed off.

‘In any event, it is worth your keeping an eye on the situation, is it not?’ he persists.

Sir Malcolm nods. ‘Anything you ask,’ he replies, staring into space. ‘James is Lydia’s nephew, you know. I was very fond of my wife. I was fond of them all. Mabel, Catherine, Lydia. Still am…’

His voice fades, and his eyes fall closed now, as if he is drifting off to sleep.

It occurs to Laurent that, for all the privileges that come with Sir Malcolm’s status, he enjoys no immunity from tragedy.

Leaving the man to his thoughts, Laurent locates Maisie in a cosy room at the front of the house decorated in pale blues.

She is sitting on a small couch, reading.

He lingers in the doorway, trying to preserve the image of her in his head.

Before they met, Laurent really did believe that fondness was the deepest emotion he could feel for a woman.

‘That didn’t take long,’ she says, looking up.

She leaps to her feet and thrusts an object in front of his face. It is a brown-and-white-speckled feather and must once have adorned a sandpiper.

‘Now you won’t forget me.’

She studies him with a look of admiration that Laurent knows he does not deserve. He thinks of Madame Rose’s words. Take more care with this one.

They are like ice down his back, like an accusation following him from his past: the other women harmed by his selfishness; the casual lovers who always wanted more from him; his mother, whom he could have saved if he had plucked up the courage to run for help.

Maisie is better off without him.

‘It would not be possible to do so,’ he says truthfully.

Laurent bends to kiss the back of her hand. For a brief second, she runs the fingers of her other hand through his hair. He waits until she has finished to straighten up, and finds her eyes are filled with tears. Stroking her cheek, he memorizes the beauty of her face.

With every ounce of effort he can assemble, Laurent walks away. From Maisie. From the carousel.

‘Au revoir, old friend,’ he catches himself thinking.