Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [123]
Eventually our drinks were empty, seconds refused, and she asked me what I’d wanted of her.
“I need to find one of the VAD drivers who was serving in France in 1918, somewhere west of Reims. She might’ve been French, although what she’d have been doing fetching our lot I can’t think. The only name I have for her is Hélène, and even that may be a nick-name. She had green eyes and was tall; that’s all I know.”
“Green eyes sounds like Charlie, but she was a Scottish girl, or was she American?”
“French-Canadian, maybe?”
“She could have been. Yes, I think—no, I’m confusing her with another girl who was killed in an attack. Her name was something like Helen, but she had dark eyes. Pretty thing. Bled to death from a piece of shrapnel in the throat.”
The room cringed in reaction, and two customers beat a hasty retreat. Gwyn noticed, and lowered her voice.
“Sorry. I forget. Why do you need to find this driver?”
“A friend is trying to find what happened to a nephew of his who was killed in ’18, not satisfied with the official story, and the boy’s diary mentions this Hélène in a manner that indicates they knew each other. She drove him out to the first-aid post.”
“Love at first sight, eh?”
“So it seems. But because he changed regiments and moved around, it’s hard to track down fellow soldiers who might have known him well. We thought he might’ve written this Hélène letters that gave an idea of his situation. The family just wants to know.”
“And the next step’s a séance, is that it? Let me ask around, see what I can come up with. She may’ve come after I had to leave—probably did, in fact, or I’d’ve met her. I’ll give my replacement there a ring, see if green eyes mean anything to her.”
“That’s great, Gwyn. Thanks so much.”
“So who’s the family?”
I hesitated, then said, “Can I tell you that after everything’s cleared up? It’s only, sometimes publicity raises dust and makes it hard to finish.”
“Fair enough. If you promise to bring along this mysterious husband of yours. Ought to meet him, now that he seems permanent.”
The image of Holmes and Gwyn Claypool circling each other like a pair of wary dogs flickered through my mind, and I had to laugh.
“No promises, Gwyn, but I’ll see what I can do.”
I glanced at my wrist-watch, then looked more closely in astonishment: We had been at our chat for better than two hours, and if I was to meet Holmes, I would have to scurry. I gave her a card with the flat’s telephone number written on it (an extension of which line rang in the downstairs servants’ quarters) and resumed my outer clothing. We left the building, embraced, and climbed into separate cabs.
Holmes was not at Simpson’s when I arrived, which did not surprise me. I went to their Ladies to tidy my hair-pins, then allowed the maitre d’ to show me to one of Holmes’ preferred tables.
Half an hour later, Holmes had not arrived, and I was glowering in my seat. At forty minutes my embarrassment and irritation began to crumple under concern. At forty-five minutes the maitre d’ came up to the table with a slip of paper in his hand. It read:
KINDLY INFORM MISS RUSSELL THAT HER COMPANION IS AT HIS BROTHER’S. PLEASE TELL HER THAT SHE MUST NOT TAKE THE FIRST AVAILABLE TAXI.
The man before me must have seen my face and feared I was about to succumb to some ladylike vapours, but I brushed away his hand and reached for my possessions.
The only reason to avoid the first convenient taxi was for fear it would be a trap. And the only reason to fear a trap—as well as the explanation for why Holmes was not here—was that an attack had already been attempted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I did, as it turned out, accept the first taxi that presented itself, reasoning that