Page 19 of A Game of Scandal

“Felicity Vane,” Izzy said, “I think you’re already acquainted with Sylla Banaji, and this is Mrs Finch.”

I dropped into a brief curtsey, and Mrs Finch gestured to the low table beside us, laid with a neatly arranged tea tray, the china teapot gently steaming.

“Please, Lady Felicity, take a seat,” Mrs Finch said, and her voice was low and sweet, and once more at odds with the keen edge of her gaze.

Sylla remained silent, though that silence felt almost as weighty as Mrs Finch’s scrutiny.

We sat down and were absorbed for several minutes in the familiar ritual of the tea tray, while Mrs Finch poured and made airy small talk. It was enough for me to catch my breath, to feel myself relax into these peculiar surroundings.

“So,” Mrs Finch said finally, her teacup almost to her lips, “I should perhaps begin by telling you something about the work that the Aviary does.”

“It would be a logical place to begin,” I agreed. “I take it we’re in some sort of…” I let my eyes move around the room. “Well, I imagine this is a more feminine version of a gentleman’s club.”

“In part,” Mrs Finch said. “We provide a space for like-minded women to gather, but we’re also an agency – an investigative agency of sorts. We take on cases for women from all areas of society who for one reason or another need our help.”

“Help with what kind of thing?” I asked.

Mrs Finch spread her hands. “All manner of things. They might be victims of theft, blackmail, murder.” She ticked the words off carelessly. “And then of course there are any number of crimes perpetrated against women that don’t technically fall outside the law. A woman suffering at the hands of her husband, a young girl coerced into a relationship she doesn’t desire, a daughter whose father finds her inconvenient and wishes to lock her in an asylum, financial neglect, abandonment… The list is, unfortunately, endless.”

“That’s an important undertaking,” I said softly, seeing my sister-in-law in a new light. I had no idea that the work she did was not only so necessary but so radical. To tackle cases that were undoubtedly disturbing, but considered family matters by the law, where women had no recourse, nowhere to turn…

As if she’d read my mind, Mrs Finch continued. “In order to be as effective as we are, we occasionally work outside the rigid and limiting legal framework of this country.” Her voice was a purr now. “Therefore it is important that our agency remains secret.”

“I bet Max loves that,” I said, glancing at Izzy. “Oh, I wish I’d been there to see you explain it to him in the first place. Working from outside the law.” I laughed. “I bet he said you should hand everything over to the police.”

Izzy grimaced, but Sylla gave a choke of laughter. I don’t know who was more surprised by it – me or her.

Mrs Finch grinned. “Your brother may still be a work in progress,” she conceded. “He’s also a good and decent man. You must be fond of him. We certainly are.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Sylla muttered into her teacup, the first words she had spoken since our arrival.

“It’s easy to love Max,” I agreed. “But to return to your work here, I take it that this Edward Laing character, the man I ran into at the Lucky Penny, is connected to one of these cases you’ve taken on?”

At this question, the other two women looked to Izzy. “You either trust me or you don’t,” I said impatiently. Sylla’s eyes narrowed, but Mrs Finch nodded. “Quite right,” she said, and she sat back in her chair, examining the fingernails on one hand. “In point of fact, Edward Laing is connected to several cases we’re currently looking into.”

Izzy took up the story. “A few weeks ago, a client came to us,” she said. “She was convinced that her sister had been murdered and that her sister’s husband was the culprit. He had much to gain from the death financially. However, his alibi was convincing.”

“How convincing?” I asked, trying to look unmoved by the conversational turn towards murder.

“He was giving a speech in the House of Commons,” Sylla said crisply, reaching forward to take a pale golden biscuit from the plate on the table.

“Oh.” I frowned. “Quite convincing, then.”

“Indeed,” Izzy said. “We took the case, and during our investigation, we came across a man who at first glance seemed an unlikely suspect: someone eminently respectable and mild-mannered – a wealthy, well-liked man. Initially he was merely a footnote, a slight connection, but, as a matter of routine, I looked into him. I didn’t like what I found.”

“Laing,” I guessed. “Does he have some sort of unsavoury past?”

“Quite the opposite,” Izzy replied. “He’s a model citizen.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Something about him felt wrong,” Izzy said slowly, “so I pushed a bit further. I still don’t know why. Instinct, I suppose.” She leaned back in her chair, blew out a deep breath. “Anyway, that’s when I realized that this particular model citizen had only existed for six years.”

CHAPTER NINE

“Only existed for six years?” I repeated. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Precisely that. The only Edward Laing I could trace of the right age died almost a dozen years ago in Somerset. There’s no information about the current Edward Laing before 1894 – no official information, that is.” Izzy drummed her fingers on top of her knee, her face a picture of concentration. “No birth certificate, no census information – though several people claim they went to school with him. They say he’s originally from a prominent northern family who emigrated to the continent before his birth, and sent him back to Britain for his schooling, but I can’t find any official records of this.