Page 56 of A Season for Scandal

“Perhaps we may use that to our advantage.”

We swiftly completed the rest of the search, turning up no further helpful clues or pieces of information. Aside from the advertisement in Mr Lavigne’s pockets, their belongings supported the story they had told us – they were middle-class British citizens who had lived in France for many years.

The labels in their clothes and shoes were French – some of them appearing several years old and neatly repaired. They had paperwork in English, including a letter from the doctor they had seen in London – a Dr Wright – who wrote to confirm that, while he believed Helene’s second accident had resulted in no further injury to her brain, it was perfectly possible it might have recovered memories that were previously lost. There were also travel papers for the three of them and Helene’s official adoption papers, carefully kept, and I remembered Oliver saying that he had already seen these.

There were French face lotions, French perfume, but English shaving cream, which Mr Lavigne must have picked up when they were in town.

Helene’s room was similarly unhelpful. She had brought a lot less with her, and unlike the Lavignes’ room, I found myself feeling guilty and uncomfortable about pawing through her meagre possessions.

A handful of gowns with nothing hidden in the seams, shoes, a few hair ribbons. There was hardly anything personal at all, only a Bible bound in pale blue leather slipped under her pillow.

Inscribed inside the cover in beautiful, faded calligraphy was the name of the school Helene told us she’d attended:Lycée Sainte-Geneviève. Tucked between the pages was a piece of embroidery that I supposed Helene had done herself when she was younger. The stitches, large and unruly, formed a wobbly heart with her initials, HL, inside.

Mrs Finch frowned over this for a moment, running her finger over the thread, before tucking it neatly back in place.

I sighed. “Nothing.”

“We shall have to wait and see what news the post brings,” Mrs Finch said, with none of the frustration I was feeling. When she caught sight of my face, she laughed. “This is often the way of it, Mari. Investigations take time; it is a matter of fitting many small pieces together until you have a complete picture. It is likely that we learned more today than you think.”

“Such as?” I asked, curious.

“Such as, that for all their talk of what they sacrifice for their daughter, Mr and Mrs Lavigne don’t seem to prioritize Helene when it comes to shopping – she has less than half the number of gowns Mrs Lavigne has brought with her.” Mrs Finch said. “Such as, the fact that not one of them has travelled with anything personal.” Here she held up a finger. “Now, you see that as a lack of clues, but in itself it is strange. Which of us would travel abroad, on a journey of unspecified length, without so much as a letter from a loved one, a diary, an appointment book, or any number of other trivial little things we think nothing of carrying with us?”

“Only someone who was hiding something,” I said slowly. “Someone who wanted to be as anonymous as possible.”

“And in that context Helene’s Bible stands out.” Mrs Finch shook out her skirts as she glanced around the room, checking not a thing was out of place. “It is a sentimental object. She brought it with her when the entire family have eschewed anything else of the sort. Why?”

“Perhaps she is particularly pious?” I said.

“Perhaps,” Mrs Finch said, “though I have not observed anything else to make me think so.”

“And she keeps it under her pillow,” I said slowly. “To hide it from her parents?”

“Another possibility,” Mrs Finch agreed. “Now, I have some correspondence to attend to. Take some time to yourself; I am sure it will be a while before Oliver returns.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I had been left to my own devices with nothing pressing to do with my time. While Mrs Finch returned to her room, my feet took me, almost without thought, to the garden.

Pushing my way through the lawn, I bent over the rough sections that I assumed had once been flower beds, bordering the space, taking in the size and shape of them, looking out for what survived. There were weeds, lots of them, and I couldn’t resist kneeling and pulling some of them out with my bare hands, unearthing as I did so, a patch of cheerful asters: pale, delicate purple with their sunny golden centres. The sight of them made me smile, holding on so stubbornly beneath all this neglect. There was no one to appreciate them, and yet they bloomed anyway.

Aster.Symphyotrichum.Meaning: Daintiness.

I looked down at the small patch I had cleared. It hadn’t been a lie, what I told Oliver – there was still life here, that it was still beautiful if you knew how to look.

Getting to my feet, I brushed absently at my skirts. They would be in York for some hours yet, I supposed. Perhaps I might use the time to practise honing my observation skills.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I headed back to the house and through to Oliver’s library. I hesitated before the door for a moment, and then pushed it open.

The room was just as warm and cheerful in the light of day, even without the homey crackle of the fire, and the air had the same wonderful, papery scent as Mudie’s did, delivering an instant sensory hit of comfort. It was, I thought, the single room in this house where a personwantedto spend their time.

Marmalade was in situ too, and as he stalked over to me, I half expected him to start hissing, warning me away from his master’s domain. Instead, he weaved around my legs, as if inviting me in.

Stepping over the threshold felt strangely forbidden, but I reminded myself that Oliver had never said that I couldn’t be in here.

And I wanted to practise.

I wasn’t going to go through his things, or invade his privacy – well, not any more than I already was by being in a place that was so clearlyhis. But I wanted tolook. I wanted to see what I could find out if I was careful, meticulous. I wanted to know more about Oliver Lockhart, the strange, bad-tempered man who had started occupying too many of my thoughts. To discover what his connection was to the Aviary and how he had done them a service.

For a moment, I stood in the middle of the room. The fact that it was so different from the rest of the house was significant, I realized. He didn’t like Lockhart Hall, or what it represented, but hewanteda home – a place of ordinary pleasures: books and brandy and a fat orange cat purring in his lap.