Justice Hall

and showing ominous signs of world-weary dissipation.

He looked nothing like the child we’d spent the last two days watching.

The other photos, of a grown Phillida at her wedding; of Marsh and Alistair at that same wedding, wearing English formal dress but with the beards of their Arab personas, neatly trimmed; of Marsh, Alistair, Iris, and two other young women seated at the base of the pelican fountain with champagne glasses in their hands; of Phillida and Sidney on a beach somewhere in France.

We were looking through the photographs when the telephone rang. I happened to be sitting closest the instrument, but on hearing that it was the trunk call come through, I held the receiver out in a direction halfway between Iris and Alistair.

“It’s Justice,” I said.

Alistair allowed Iris to take it, which I thought showed remarkable restraint: He looked more likely to curse and rage than to listen to whatever servant or nurse had been dispatched to give news of the duke’s state. Nonetheless, he hunched over Iris, their faces so close he must have heard every word that came over the line. I could tell by his darkening face that the news was not happy.

Iris hung the earpiece onto its rest, and gave us a small shake of the head. “He’s roaring at the nurses and throwing objects at the doctor. Ogilby asks when we are coming back. We’d best take the earlier train.”

Holmes, thoughtful, replaced the photographs in the envelope.

“Lady Phillida seems as eager as her husband that you all accept the boy,” he said. “I believe we ought to know why. Or rather,” he corrected himself, “what lies behind the ‘why.’ The ‘why’ itself is fairly obvious: The Darlings being by English law unable to assert claim or control over Justice Hall, they see Thomas as their, shall we say, proxy duke. They know that Marsh longs to leave; they long for him to leave as well, to allow them to carry on as the de facto masters of Justice. Thomas is the means by which that goal might be attained, an heir, conveniently under-aged, thus requiring regents to care properly for the house and farms. To say nothing of German industrial investments. What we do not know is if there is any criminal intent or deed behind the Darling sponsorship of Thomas. What was that you said, Russell?”

“Nothing, Holmes. It’s just that I don’t know that my simply continuing to change my hat-bands and overcoat is going to keep the woman from noticing that the same woman has been following her from Paris to London and back again. It’s all very well for a man—you all dress alike—but I can hear from your voice that we’re headed back to France, and so I think I ought to replenish my wardrobe first.”

“You’re right.”

“I should be back in a couple of hours,” I began, but he overrode me.

“I have a bolt-hole not far from this hotel,” he said. “We’ll find what we need there.”

I gave in. For one thing, he would have more makeup in one of his secret apartments than at my own London pied-a-terre, and with the right makeup, one person can be several.

We arranged with Iris and Alistair to stay behind in case Terese and her son left the hotel. The manager would telephone to the room if the Hughenforts passed through the lobby, and Alistair would pursue them.

“Come, Russell,” my husband ordered.

I came.

To return two hours later, one of a pair of French priests.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

In London we would be noticeable; in France, invisible. We carried with us the odds and ends that would transform us into more ordinary citizens, since I had no intention of inhabiting the itchy cassock longer than necessary, but it was as priests that we left the hotel the next morning, as priests we boarded the train. We occupied our hard third-class benches as far as the French shore, when the newly boarded French conductor spotted us and led us up the train to first class and told us to be welcome. Properly speaking, we ought to have crouched with all humility in our luxurious seats. Holmes, however, had other ideas, and before I knew it he had found the Hughenforts, manoeuvred a change of seats, and was greeting Mme Terese, bending forward to squint at her son through the thick glasses he wore, making admiring noises.

Thus we spent the last portion of the trip, with the rich French countryside passing our windows, in conversation with our quarry herself.

Holmes, at least, was in conversation with her, his fluent French with the accents of the south tumbling out like that of a priest on holiday, far from his parishioners and made free by the knowledge. I sat to one side, glumly reading my Testament and wafting a general air of disapproving youth over my elders.

And elder she was. Lionel Hughenfort had been born in 1882, and married when he was thirty-two. This woman must have been pushing forty then, if not actually past it—I could not help wondering how many other children she’d had before Thomas. She was now a buxom, comfortable fifty-year-old woman, well preserved but showing signs that her life had not been one of contemplation and ease. In her relief at escaping the judgmental English relations, she rattled on in garrulous abandon, proving not at all difficult to steer. She was unread but with a shrewd native intelligence, and hugely proud of her clever schoolboy of a son—although she made an effort not to gush, so as to save the child from embarrassment. She proved darkly suspicious of all things English, and revealed once a brief flash of Gallic pride at some unnamed but recent triumph over the citizens of that country, who were all of them—most of them, she corrected herself—sly behind their beefy grins. Had not her own husband been forced to flee to Paris, to escape his own family? And had not that same husband’s brother come screaming and scheming to pull asunder what God Himself had joined? Oh, some Englishmen were true gentlemen, she would give us that, generous and fair—her poor dead husband’s relation, for example, who had come to see her during the War to give her money for a new suit of clothes for the boy and sent gifts from time to time, now he was a true gentleman—but even they had their plans, and it would not do to put one’s self too firmly into their hands, would it, Father?

And as for a mother’s responsibility to her son, the sooner half of France lay between Those People and the boy, the better.

No, she would have nothing to do with British soil, not until her boy was old enough to view glitter and pomp with a certain detachment. Although their pounds, when translated into good clean francs, those were acceptable, wouldn’t you agree, Father?

At this point, the child Thomas moved over from his mother’s side to mine, either because he’d heard her opinions on the subject before, or because he had just got up his nerve to approach me. In either case, he decided to try for a conversation with the younger priest.

His “Bonjour” was friendly and not in the least tentative. I returned it, and then he asked what I was reading. I told him. He said it did not look like French, and I agreed that it was Latin. The ice being broken, it then appeared that he had a question.

“Father, someone told me that Jesus was not a Christian. Can this be true?”

Concealing my amusement, I explained to him that “Christian” meant a follower of Jesus Christ, and that therefore the man himself could not, strictly speaking, have been one. “In fact,” I added, “Jesus himself was born into a Jewish family, worshipped in the Jewish temple, thought of himself as a Jew. It was only later that his followers decided that what he represented was a new thing.”

The boy’s mind was supple and inquisitive, which I thought a remarkable paedagogic achievement for the son of a woman with no great intellect, and we talked for a time about the Old and New Testaments, about the kinds of stories each contained, about the differences between God and Jesus Christ. I could see him floundering at this last morass—no surprise, since many adult minds did the same—and turned him away with a question about his preferences in school.

I had to wonder who his actual father might have been.

On the outskirts of Paris it transpired—oh how astounding and blessed a coincidence!—that we, too, were heading to Lyons, and we, too, not until tomorrow, in the afternoon! It was unlikely, of course, that we would again be moved up into first class by a devout conductor, but perhaps we would see Mme and the young scholar while boarding our respective cars? And perhaps, Holmes ventured piously, as we were to pass several days in that city,