Her father was Indian. Maisie’s mind latches on to the one thing she knows about the country, the story of the Maharaja of Lahore riding bareback on an elephant, as told by Nancy at Grand Central Station five years ago. It all sounds so exotic.

  Maisie’s excitement flounders on the second page.

  Several police reports indicate that the couple turned to crime. A pair of gold candlesticks were stolen from a church in Islington . . . to evade the law fled England for France, where further police reports have been uncovered. Last such reports for the pair were from the Cour des miracles area of Paris in January and February of 1919.

  February 1919 was only five months ago. Maisie’s emotions veer from shock to joy to distress at the realization that her parents had been alive all this time and never tried to make contact. There is a roar in her ears as she reaches the final sentence. Local law enforcement believe that the pair still operate in this area – Yousuf as a pickpocket and Eliza as a prostitute known as Belle.

  Maisie retches. It feels like everything she thought she knew about herself was contained within a glass ball that has shattered into a million pieces, and she is wading through shards that cut her to the core. The Sixpences were better parents than her own, which is saying something.

  The voice inside her head begins to scream. How dare Laurent go poking into her past and stirring everything up? As if he hasn’t already done enough damage. Her fingers are shaking, and a tremble starts that travels up her arms and through her body. With a violent sweep of her hands, she sends the objects arranged carefully on the surface of Sir Malcolm’s desk crashing to the floor. Clara runs into the room, quickly followed by Eric and Arnold.

  ‘Get out!’ Maisie screams. ‘Get out!’

  Knowing better than to interfere, they scurry away.

  Maisie rounds on the desk drawers next, tossing everything on to the floor. Leaving Tommy; believing her parents were dead; Aunty Mabel and Miss Catherine dying; the worry for the missing children – they are now like wild animals escaped from a cage.

  She glimpses a decanter of a dark brown beverage on the window­sill. If it works for Sir Malcolm, there’s no reason why it can’t work for Maisie. She removes the stopper and sniffs. The sharp smell makes her nose wrinkle. She takes a swig. The whisky is bitter, repulsive, and Maisie has an urge to spit it out, but she makes herself swallow every drop. The second mouthful is easier; she holds her nose and forces in the liquid. As she takes a third, Maisie spots the carousel in the distance, silent and mysterious, as though it’s mocking her. She wants to take an axe and smash it to pieces.

  Falling

  28

  It is a relief to be back on dry land. The return voyage across the ocean was worse than the journey there. This time a storm midway across the Atlantic tossed the boat for an entire night and extended the crossing time from the expected six days to eight and one quarter. Laurent was counting.

  He had almost gone back. As he sat on the hotel bed with his suitcase packed and his head between his hands, Laurent’s impulse told him to return to Fairweather House and beg Maisie to be his. Even when he reached New York, he dithered. It was not too late to catch the 4 p.m. train and arrive in Chicago the next day. But Sir Malcolm would have given her the letter by then, and she would quite rightly be too angry to contemplate running off with him. Instigating the kiss without first explaining his marital status was a mistake. Yet in that moment he had not been able to help it.

  Weary, he winds through the disembarking passengers. It is strange to be surrounded by his mother tongue again. A mad scramble for the station and Laurent catches the next train from Le Havre to Paris. The familiar sights of the French countryside stream past – endless fields of lavender, peasants tending crops, lines of laundry pegged between lime trees. By the time he arrives in the city, Laurent has feasted on liver pâté and Camembert washed down by a fine Bordeaux in the buffet carriage.

  Hailing a carriage from the station, he watches Paris clatter past. The majesty of the Eiffel Tower. Montmartre like a giant molehill. When they reach the Jardin du Luxembourg, he knows that it is only a matter of minutes until they enter the street that he has called home for the last thirteen years.

  The apartment building is just as he left it four weeks ago. Painted a graceful mint green with vermillion shutters and turquoise wrought-iron balconies, the place would have the appearance of a bohemian duchess if it were a person. Trudging up the stairs, Laurent passes the familiar smell of bœuf bourguignon mingled with lemon meringue emanating from Madame Gauthier’s first-floor apartment, and continues on to the second floor.

  He stills himself for several seconds. His state of upset is not the fault of his family. He will make an effort. He will be a better husband and a better father.

  Before he can find his keys, the front door is flung open.

  ‘Papa!’

  Amélie throws her small arms around his legs. It is then that he remembers that he was so caught up with saying goodbye to Maisie that he entirely forgot to acquire a replacement Silver Kingdom flyer for his daughter. Shuffling into the apartment with Amélie still clinging, Laurent deposits his suitcase by the umbrella stand.

  ‘How I’ve missed you,’ he says, patting the crown of her curly brown hair.

  Odette enters the hallway, looking gladder to see him than he had expected. Perhaps this could hail a fresh start for the marriage? Before they have a chance to greet one another, Amélie pulls both parents into the living room. A chocolate-and-cherry gâteau – his favourite – sits triumphantly on the coffee table.

  ‘Absolutely wonderful!’ he exclaims, touched by the thoughtfulness.

  ‘I chose it, Papa,’ Amélie says, bouncing with excitement. ‘The best gâteau in the world for the best papa.’

  ‘From the best daughter,’ he responds and tickles her until she squeals for him to stop.

  Odette cuts the cake, with the largest slice reserved for Laurent. As she passes him the plate, her fingers linger on his hand. Without thinking, he pulls back from her touch. A quizzical expression appears in her eyes. Concern mixed with scrutiny. He looks away and reaches for a napkin. Remembering his decision to make an effort, he squeezes her hand, then drops it. ‘Later,’ he promises her quietly.

  * * *

  That next morning, the usual noises accompany Laurent along the corridors of the 6th Arrondissement precinct: typewriters clacking, screams from the interrogation rooms, ribald laughter in the constables’ mess.

  Constable Segal is lounging in Laurent’s office, eating a pain aux raisins with his feet up on the desk.

  ‘I see you’ve made yourself comfortable in my absence,’ Laurent comments.

  The constable splutters and jumps up.

  ‘And an absence that was all for nothing.’ He points to a postcard-sized piece of paper on the desk. ‘A telegram came yesterday from that agent I put you in touch with. The actress’s ex-lover has retracted his statement.’

  Laurent scans the brief message with a sinking feeling – it appears that Beau Armitage has a new lawyer who is accusing the Bureau of roughing up their suspect. Not just that: the man has found an alibi for his client. Forcing a false confession is always a risk if the heavy-handed techniques that Laurent suspects were employed are too heavy.

  Perhaps the Bureau were pressured into concluding the case. After his conversations with Sir Malcolm – in particular the one on his last night in Chicago, in which he was offered a brown envelope for ensuring the matter progressed in the right direction for everyone – it would not surprise Laurent if the Randolph brothers had bribed the American authorities in order to save their business.

  In any event, Laurent considers that his trip was not wasted. The discovery of a link between the victims and the fudge-coloured horse has thrown up the existence of an accomplice who, by the looks of it, is still out there somewhere. Quietly and without the knowledge of his superiors, he intends to reinvestigate by digging through Victor’s history and identifying his associates in France.

  ‘On the contrary, Segal,’ he says eventually. ‘It has given me much to follow up on.’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ the constable replies. He looks his superior up and down, and up and down again, and bursts into uncontrolled laughter. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’

  Laurent examines his attire. He had completely forgotten that he is dressed in the casual suit he acquired from the American department store. He takes a deep breath, his hand moving to rest on the breast pocket, where the sandpiper feather is stored. While he knows he should try to forget about Maisie both for her sake and in fairness to his wife, Laurent feels a need to make up for his behaviour first. If he can find the current location of Maisie’s parents and broker a reconciliation, perhaps she will forgive him. Perhaps he will forgive himself.

  29

  Nursing a glass of wine, Maisie tries to block out the joyful sounds of the amusement park. In the ten days since Laurent has been gone, she’s steered clear of Silver Kingdom during opening hours. Being confronted by the sight of lovers strolling arm in arm, or mothers holding the hands of their children, would be too much to bear. Instead, Maisie inspects the park late in the evening. She has decided to do the paperwork in the parlour for the time being, and has transferred the necessary business files from the office near the ticket booth to the house. The workforce know either to see her in the parlour or, better yet, to speak to the Randolph brothers if they need help. So far, there’s been nothing more taxing than organizing another print run of entrance tickets, ordering a gallon of oil for Mrs Ferretti’s dodgems and looking over the accounts, which is just as well, because it’s been difficult to concentrate. Consuming thoughts repeat in Maisie’s mind like a stuck gramophone record. Will I always be angry? Why did my parents leave? Why did Laurent kiss me?

  That moment felt as if she were dancing with him on the edge of the universe, gliding past stars. It clearly meant less to Laurent, at least not enough for him even to have told Maisie that he had a wife.

  A restless ache makes Maisie want to scream, tear her hair out, rage. But she holds herself in check to avoid alarming the staff. Ever since her outburst after reading Laurent’s letters, all the servants have been keeping an eye on her: Peggy Mae bakes cookies for her; Clara brings in magazines; Eric tidies her papers; and Arnold visits every night to reassure Maisie that he’s still keeping Silver Kingdom’s customers away from the caramel-coloured horse.

  It felt like a wound was being ripped open when she learnt from Hugo one week ago about Beau Armitage’s release. Bumping into him outside the parlour, he’d explained that the Bureau didn’t believe the alibi provided by some married woman, who had claimed she was with him that day and late into the night, so they wouldn’t be looking for anyone else. Still, Maisie was horrified: an abductor remains out there, whether it’s Beau or not. Or there’s more to the disappearances than meets the eye. Maisie is no nearer to explaining her strange experience on the ride.

  Hugo must have noticed her expression, because he’d added, ‘It’s fine, Maisie. Mr Armitage is moving to Los Angeles to get away from it all. And the authorities there will keep an eye on him, let the Bureau know if he returns to Chicago, so he’s prevented from coming back to the park.’

  Sir Malcolm was equally relaxed about the news when Maisie had questioned him over dinner later, brushing away her concerns with a wave of his hand. That night, Maisie spent thirty minutes laying stones near the carousel to ward off another disappearance.

  Draining her glass, she glances at the drinks ranged on the chest of drawers: that was the last of the white wine and red makes Maisie feel worse. Careful to keep on the right side of tipsy during working hours, she saves the bourbon, gin and brandy for the evening to fully anaesthetize the pain.

  She heads for the drawing room, where she hopes to procure a bottle of Chablis.

  ‘Nice to see you, Maisie.’

  The voice makes her jump. Turning around, she’s taken aback to see James standing in the doorway of the study, dressed in a full set of tails, complete with a white bow tie.

  ‘Aren’t you a little overdressed for gardening?’ she asks.

  He looks amused. ‘Didn’t you hear? I’ve found a permanent job. Arnold’s cousin works at a jazz club and they had an opening there. Gus, the owner, couldn’t wait to snap me up once he’d read my résumé,’ he claims, not even trying to disguise the pride in his voice. He holds out a small package. ‘I’m on my way there now. I only stopped by to bring Sir Malcolm a thank-you gift for helping me out when I first arrived, but I can’t find him.’

  She’s astonished that no one thought to mention it. Then again, the focus of her discussions with Arnold has been the carousel, and Sir Malcolm hasn’t been himself lately. Thinking back to her nightly dinners with him since Laurent left, Maisie now realizes that they’ve spoken less and less each night, both lost in their own thoughts. It makes James’s news a pleasant surprise – at least he won’t be hover­ing around Silver Kingdom any more.

  ‘Sir Malcolm is probably dealing with a problem in the park. Just leave the gift on the console table, and he’ll see it when he comes in.’

  From her position near the staircase, Maisie spies a bottle of champagne through the open door of the drawing room. A couple of glasses should prove sufficiently strong to blur her thoughts for the next few hours.

  ‘You look like you need cheering up,’ James says, as though he can see into her mind. ‘And I know just the thing. Come along to the jazz club. It’s my night off tomorrow, and I can show you around the place.’

  Maisie frowns. ‘No, thank you, I’m busy,’ she lies.

  ‘Oh, come on, it’ll do you good,’ he insists. ‘Don’t you fancy a few hours of fun with a friend?’

  She hesitates. James is pushy and arrogant and she doesn’t consider him as anything more than a vague acquaintance. But, with Laurent gone, Maisie feels so desperately alone that she finds herself tempted by any chance of companionship. Although she is on good terms with the servants, ultimately, they are still staff and, therefore, duty-bound to be courteous to her. As a result, she doesn’t feel it’s fair to burden them with her confidences.

  ‘All right,’ she agrees, hoping to flush the detective from her mind.

  30

  Maisie follows James through a series of grimy corridors, twisting first left, then right, and right again; then they descend a staircase and arrive at another long corridor, at the end of which is a set of double doors guarded by a huge man in a dark fur coat and green trilby.

  ‘Evening, Bernard. It’s quiet tonight,’ James remarks, handing over a dollar.

  Bernard shrugs. ‘Wednesdays never see much action.’

  He bangs twice on the double doors, pauses and bangs three times in quick succession. A few seconds later, the doors swing open from the other side to reveal a sight Maisie could never have imagined.

  A cavernous space bedecked in red-and-silver swags of silk reveals a stage where a smiling man in a tuxedo is singing an upbeat tune Maisie doesn’t recognize, surrounded by an orchestra. Milling about, lounging at the bar, dancing, are people of every colour, dressed like exotic creatures of the night. Fascinated, Maisie can’t take her eyes off them. A tall man sporting a live snake around his neck like a scarf parades past, followed by an assortment of bejewelled young women. Most surprising are the gaming tables set up in a dark corner, crowded with excited patrons throwing in their bets. Gambling is illegal, so it’s no wonder Bernard is careful about who he lets in the club. As she watches the roulette wheel spin, Maisie is reminded of the carousel.

  ‘Let’s find a table,’ James shouts over the buzz.

  He shepherds Maisie through the room, greeting faces in the crowd with shouts of ‘How’s business, Nigel?’ or ‘Good to see you, Johnny.’ Maisie can tell that he’s at home in this hurly-burly, and she’s surprised at how quickly he’s adapted.

  As they settle in a booth near the back with a view of the stage, a bald waiter appears.

  ‘A gin sling for me, Curly.’ James turns to Maisie. ‘What’ll you have, Maisie?’

  Something stronger will take the edge off.

  ‘A vodka. Make it a double, please,’ she says, having been inspired by Nancy to try it for the first time. He looks at her, surprised, but makes no comment. The volume of the saxophone rises, and it becomes too noisy to talk. Sitting back to enjoy the music, Maisie tries to assimilate into these strange new surroundings. She’s out of place here, prim in her buttoned-up, floor-length gown and tense seated next to James. The other women are dazzlers, carefree and laughing, in slinky dresses that show their legs, their cleavage. Confident, they dance with abandon, flirt with men, smoke. Women her age. Women her colour. Women darker and lighter than Maisie. It makes her wonder what she’s been missing out on all these years.

  The wine she consumed this evening before leaving is beginning to wear off and she wills the waiter to appear with her drink. Melancholy is threatening to creep in. She wishes, despite herself, that it was Laurent here with her. But Laurent is back in France with his wife.

  The waiter glides back to the table, deposits the drinks and glides away. Maisie gulps down the vodka, slams the glass on the table. Good riddance to Laurent.

  James grins. ‘Atta girl, Maisie.’ He lifts his glass. ‘To the great nation of America, where women can come to clubs like this and do whatever they please.’

  There’s a lull in the music and conversation breaks out on the surrounding tables.

  ‘It seems like you’re really embracing America,’ Maisie comments.

  ‘And it’s embracing me. I like it here. I like the opportunities, the people . . . and I like the women . . .’

  James sips his drink, eyes Maisie over the glass. Emboldened by the heady atmosphere in here, she holds his gaze. He finishes his drink and wipes his mouth with a napkin from a pile on the table.

 

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