Justice Hall

entrance.

The family possessed no photograph of mother or son, and only the most general of physical descriptions of Lionel’s widow. Still, we thought, surely there would not be an overabundance of women in their late forties travelling with nine-year-old boys. All we needed do was make note of the motor that left any such pair at the gare, and track down car and driver at our leisure.

Our optimism was unjustified: The taxi-stand seemed filled with women of that description, as if Paris were about to hold a huge conference of mothers and sons. Here a blonde, there a redhead, there one brunette after another, following on the heels of a third.

I spied three who might be she, each with a black-haired boy at her side. I noted the numbers on each taxi, that the drivers might be interviewed later if need be, and waited until the last moment to climb onto the train. Holmes was even later than I, tumbling aboard as the doors were being shut. We went to our own first-class compartment to compare notes. He had seen four possible candidates, two arriving on foot, two in private motors. One of those had kissed her driver a passionate farewell.

When the train was under way, Holmes and I strolled in opposite directions to work our way through the first-class cars. I saw only one of my possibilities; he saw two of his, one of those the woman of the ardent good- bye. We kept all the women under sporadic watch, but none that we saw was approached by any person other than the ticket collector or other women with children.

It was on the boat that our vigilance paid off. We had narrowed our candidates down to two: a thin, sharp- eyed woman with a Parisian accent and a worn collar, or a short, round, brown-haired woman in a new, expensive, but subtly unfashionable frock. Both wore wedding rings and nervous expressions, but only the plump woman addressed her child as “Thomas.”

We took turns in her vicinity, gathering impressions more than information. She grew more tense as England drew near, picking at her fingernails and pulling at her lips with her sharp yellow teeth—but I noticed that unlike many tense mothers I had seen, she did not take her vexation out on her boy. With him she was patient and attentive, occasionally reaching out to brush back a wayward lock of hair or to pat his arm for their mutual reassurance.

I was unreasonably pleased that she was not the one who had kissed the driver.

In London, I stayed close behind her while Holmes collected our bags. She gave the taxi driver the name of the hotel that had been arranged for her; I gave my driver the same, and rode on her heels to the door. There I took my time counting out the fare, lest she notice that the woman who’d been behind her at the station had also climbed out of a taxi behind her. When she was safely inside, I disembarked, then took up a position behind a potted palm until she had received her key and was being escorted to the lift.

In varying guises, alone and as a pair, Holmes and I kept the woman in view, from the moment when, rested and bathed, mother and son emerged to explore the park across from the hotel, until they took an early dinner at a cafe and then returned to their rooms. At ten o’clock, Holmes donned a uniform lent him by the management (between his name and that of Hughenfort, all things were made possible) and knocked on her door with “a small welcome from her husband’s family,” namely, an enormous box of chocolates in gaudy wrapping. He found her with her hair down, preparing for bed, and speaking in a low whisper so as not to disturb her sleeping son.

Satisfied that Mme Hughenfort was not about to leave for a night amongst London’s wilder clubs, we took ourselves to bed on the floor below hers. It was silent, all the night.

In the morning, Madame took breakfast in her room. By late morning, she could remain still no longer. At a quarter to eleven, Holmes, seated behind the Times in the lobby, spotted the pair coming out of the lift. He folded his paper and sauntered after them, hissing briefly to catch my attention as he passed. We followed them for the next two hours, alternating positions, changing hat-bands and scarfs and turning around our double-sided overcoats, exchanging parcels and carry-bags, slumping or striding out as the pace demanded. I was generally the one to follow her into shops, where I changed my hat brim and tilted the hat, or straightened to appear tall and aloof, before in the next shop becoming uncertain and dowdy.

They never spotted us, not even the boy, who had a bright eye. We stayed with them up to the door of the restaurant where they would take luncheon with their unknown in-laws. The door shut. As we stood on the other side of the street, watching Terese Hughenfort hand her parcels over and straighten her son’s collar and hair, Holmes asked me, “Well?”

“He’s not a Hughenfort. Wrong chin, wrong eyebrows, the eyes—everything.”

“The hair dye she used isn’t even very good,” he agreed.

We took a quick lunch of our own, returned to the grand entrance well before five Hughenforts came out and then parted, and followed her back to the hotel.

Mme Hughenfort did not look terribly happy.

And she had not reappeared before Alistair and Iris came to compare notes, having seen Phillida safely back onto the train to Arley Holt. Alistair’s hand was free of its gauze wrapping, although the arm seemed tender to movement. I assembled four chairs in front of the fire, and while Holmes perused the drinks tray, I telephoned down for tea. When I had finished with the instrument, Iris took it up and asked for a trunk call to Justice, in order to check on Marsh’s condition.

“How was your luncheon?” I asked Alistair.

“The woman drank three gin fizzes,” he said with a shudder.

“Poor thing,” Iris said, modifying the condemnation. “She was terrified.”

“She had a right to be,” Alistair growled, as ferocious a noise as ever Ali had come out with. “She was trying to commit a fraud.”

“So you would agree?” Holmes asked. “The boy was not fathered by Lionel Hughenfort?”

“Never,” Alistair declared.

“Lionel was built like Marsh,” Iris explained. “Shorter even, dark, a muscular build even though he never took exercise and had a sickly childhood. Were it not for his hair, the child would look almost Scandinavian—his eyes are even blue.”

“The hair is dyed,” Holmes and Alistair said simultaneously. Iris looked at them, and frowned.

“You mean to say the child is in on the deception as well?”

I for one was not willing to go quite that far. “He may regard it as a game. And I will say that he seems a keen enough lad, bright and well mannered, genuinely fond of his mother—and she of him.”

“So,” Alistair said, his voice dry. “You are suggesting that the boy would make a suitable heir, were Marsh willing to overlook the small problem of the boy’s paternity.”

Put like that, it was an unlikely scenario. Still, I registered a mild complaint. “It really is a bit ridiculous, this whole business of preserving the male line, don’t you think? And I’m sure that if you studied family portraits closely enough, you’d find anomalies in the noblest of families. Marsh needs an heir in order to feel that he can leave Justice: He could do worse than that child.”

I did not expect to convince them; I couldn’t even convince myself, since I knew that Marsh’s determination to have the truth was all that counted.

“What did Lady Phillida make of them?” Holmes asked.

“That was interesting, didn’t you think, Ali?” Iris answered. “She seemed quite willing to clasp the child, if not his mother, to her breast. Started to talk about having them up to Justice until Ali cut her off.”

“Was she predisposed to accept the lad, would you say? Or did it only come about gradually?”

“The instant she laid eyes on him, she exclaimed how like Lionel he was. But here—Phillida brought these to show them, and Ali snagged them back for you.” Iris took an oversized envelope from her handbag, handing it to Holmes.

It held photographs of the family, in groups and alone. My eyes were drawn to one that showed most of the major players in our family saga, arranged on the steps before Justice Hall: Marsh as a man in his early twenties, standing between an undergraduate Alistair and a vibrant young Iris, the three friends looking as if they were repressing laughter at a shared joke; a taller, older version of the Hughenfort line had his arm dutifully around a thin, tense woman a few years his junior—the fifth Duke, Gerald, I knew from a portrait in the Hall—and between them a child of four or five who had the black curls and proud chin of Phillida. Then Iris pointed to the last figure in the group.

“That’s Lionel, aged sixteen.” He resembled a washed-out Marsh. His eyes were too dark to be blue.

She sorted through the snapshots and studio portraits to show us a clearer picture of the man, slightly older