The Case for Jamie (Charlotte Holmes #3)(50)

I laughed. Then I realized he was serious. “I’m sorry?”

“I dealt with a case last year,” he said, fishing out another pastry. “It’s absurdly simple. The con downloads a transfer of property form, makes copies of the stolen passport and forges the signature, and signs the house over to his actual name. A woman I worked for paid her mortgage for months, not realizing she was lining someone else’s pocket. I found the thief in Vancouver, after a long search, and . . . persuaded him to come back to the States with me. I’m not saying this is exactly what Lucien has planned. But you can do quite a lot with someone else’s identity, and I imagine that he plans to.”

“And he has Merrick Morgan-Vilk’s son involved. Merrick, who has no love for Lucien Moriarty.” I thought for a moment. “Do you think we should approach him directly for help? The father?”

Leander laughed, surprised. “Not unless you want to announce our presence with a bullhorn. I’m sure Lucien knows about Morgan-Vilk’s current political plans—it isn’t public, but it isn’t on lockdown, either, and he’ll have eyes on the campaign. No, I think we have to convince Morgan-Vilk more indirectly.”

“Put that on hold for now,” I said. “I had an idea for this afternoon. You know about the Virtuoso School?”

“I do. Spent any time on their website recently?”

“Why would I? I’ve been reading New York’s private school forums.”

Leander began to smile. “And?”

“Hartwell,” I said. He wasn’t listed on the official website, or on any of the provisional pages I could find online. The only connection of his name that I found with the Virtuoso School had been a man named MHartwell43 asking a question about paid vacation leave. He was a new employee, too new to be officially listed, and already he was looking to switch jobs.

But he hadn’t yet.

“Hartwell.” His mouth quirked up. “Good work.”

As we’d been talking, I found myself warming from the inside. Perhaps it was simply the bath, or the food, or the presence of an adult I admired. But there was more than that. I had that feeling of being known, of having all my dark corners illuminated. It wasn’t a new feeling. I’d had it in the past, with Leander and Watson and once even with my mother. But it had been a very long time.

“I’ve been—” I struggled with saying it. “I think I’ve been impossibly awful to you. I won’t be again.”

Leander nodded. His eyes were bright.

“Thank you for sharing what you know, and for trusting me. I know I don’t deserve it.” The words were coming easier now. The dam door blown open.

“Darling girl,” my uncle said, a bit hoarsely, “of course you deserve it. How would you like yourself a partner?”

THE VIRTUOSO SCHOOL WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF MANHATTAN, on a surprisingly serene street in Chelsea. We weren’t far from Peter Morgan-Vilk’s apartment, in fact, and I put my umbrella up against the rain, not out of worry for my hair or clothes, but because I wanted a shield ready against recognition if I needed one.

The school itself was quiet, furnished in the spare style my mother had always liked, and yet there was a hominess to it I hadn’t expected. Natural light. Wooden rafters. A pair of girls holding hands, running late to class. It made me nostalgic for a school life I’d never had. Somewhere in the background a girl was playing her cello, but I didn’t recognize the piece. It might have been of her own devising.

We were shown to the admissions suite, where we were greeted, to our disappointment, by a girl in a smart dress who had us fill out a dossier. “I thought Hartwell worked Wednesdays,” I whispered to my uncle, but he shook his head imperceptibly.

“Don’t worry,” he said at normal volume. “We’ll get you in, you belong here,” and the man walking into the suite laughed a bit to himself.

“I admire your confidence,” he said.

Leander stuck out his hand. “Walter Simpson.”

“Michael Hartwell,” he said. “Why don’t you come into my office and tell me a bit more about your daughter?”

“My niece,” Leander said, with his thousand-watt smile, and this time when he reached out to guide me into the room, my hesitation was all pretend.

“This is such a gorgeous place,” I said, sitting down and smoothing out my skirt. “I keep hearing music! It’s wonderful.”

“I know it’s late in the year for a transfer,” Leander said.

“Of her senior year. Miss Simpson will have already applied to colleges, by now, yes? I don’t know how much we can help her.” Hartwell flipped through my file again, then shut it. He gave me a sympathetic smile. “May I ask why you’re looking to change schools now?”

I stared down at the shiny tops of my Mary Janes. “My tutor died,” I said. “Unexpectedly. My parents thought I should come be with my uncle in the States for a change of scenery. And besides, I didn’t apply to conservatory yet. I thought I’d perhaps take a gap year.”

“Her tutor’s loss has been quite the blow. They’d worked together for a long time.” Leander stole a look at me. “She’s going to hate me for this, but—”

I colored. “No, don’t! You promised you wouldn’t!”