Page 28 of A Season for Scandal

“I see his reputation precedes him.” Oliver’s lip curled. “To continue – in his infinite wisdom, Mr Wylie decided to put an advertisement in the paper.”

“Let me guess.” Sylla examined her fingernails. “The advertisement claimed you were looking for information on your long-lost sister because there was a fat inheritance with her name on it waiting in the wings?”

“Yes.”

“Oh no,” I murmured softly, my eyes widening in understanding.

“Oh yes.” Oliver rubbed his temples. “I have been absolutelyinundatedwith claims that my sister is alive and well and ready to collect her money.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fat stack of envelopes tied together with a piece of string. “Here is a handful of the letters I have received. I thought perhaps you might like to go through them.” His voice was tinged with weariness now as he threw the letters down on the table.

“Do you… Do you believe any of these letters are legitimate?” I asked hesitantly. “Do you believe your sister could be alive?”

A hush fell, something solemn lingering in the air.

Oliver looked down at his hands. “I don’t know what to believe,” he said finally. “Not now.”

“Tell them the rest of it, Oliver,” Mrs Finch said gently.

Oliver stood and stalked back towards the fireplace, as though he couldn’t stand to be sitting around a tea table, looking at us. Instead, he stared into the grate – one that, as it was still so mild, I had filled myself with a playful spill of sunflowers, each petal like a lick of flame – his hands clasped behind his back as he spoke.

“A week ago a couple arrived on my doorstep in Yorkshire with a young woman in tow who they claim is my sister.” He said the words quickly. “As you can imagine, it was not the first time this had happened since the advert was placed, but there are several key differences in this case.”

He turned back to us, his fingers closing round the top of the back of his chair.

“This couple, a Mr and Mrs Lavigne, claim to have been living in France for the last twelve years. They arrived with a file full of papers, stamped by the British consulate, which confirmed the identities of them and their daughter, who they adopted eleven years ago. According to them, they rescued Ellen – who now goes by the name Helene – from the river after her accident, though the child had no memory of who she was or what had happened to her. Recently, however, they say this has changed.”

“Hmmm,” Sylla murmured. “Convenient.”

“But possible,” Winnie put in. “A head injury sustained during a carriage accident could lead to memory loss. There is much we don’t yet understand about the human brain.”

The earnest and deeply enthusiastic way she said it conjured unfortunate images of Winnie’s lab full of jars of floating human brains. The haunted expressions on several of my colleagues’ faces told me I wasn’t the only one to picture the ghoulish scene.

“CouldHelene be your sister?” Izzy asked, breaking the spell.

“My first thought was no. The Lavignes claimed to know nothing of the advertisement, but I was struck by the timing, and while she is the right age and does resemble my sister, I felt no particular sense of recognition when I saw her.”

“But if it has been eleven years…” Maud began.

“Would I recognize her?” Oliver finished. “I thought so, but … perhaps not.”

“So you think Helene is another imposter?” I asked.

Oliver’s grip on the chair tightened. “I don’t know.” The words sounded painful. “Sometimes she is like a stranger, not knowing her way around the house, or not remembering a particular anecdote. But there have been other things, things Helene has said, things I was sure only Ellen knew. Stories about our past…” He trailed off here for a moment. “And then, most importantly, there’s the scar.”

“What scar?” Sylla sat up straighter.

“My sister had a small crescent-shaped scar on her palm,” Oliver said, gesturing to his own hand. “She got it during a childish mishap when we were playing together. Helene has not drawn attention to it, but I noticed it was there when she removed her gloves.”

Max frowned. “Plenty of ways to affect a scar if one wants to use them as disguise.”

Izzy snorted. “We once passed off Max as my deaf great-aunt thanks to Sylla’s skill with theatrical make-up.”

“No!” I exclaimed, temporarily diverted.

Max only smiled serenely.

“The issue is” – Oliver sat back down, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees – “that Helene may or may not be Ellen. But if she’snotEllen, then how does she know the things she does? Stories about our childhood, nicknames, jokes we shared.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “Things no one elsecouldknow.”

“She would have to know them from Ellen herself,” I said, the realization dawning.