Not by Sight (33 page)

“Oh, Clare, that’s not true,” Lucy said. “Look what he d-did for me.”

“Yes, he helped you. Then he dragged our friend off to jail without saying a word to me or anyone else.” Clare turned to Agnes, her gray eyes full of compassion. “I believe Lord Roxwood
still has feelings for Grace.” She sighed. “But he’ll need a miracle to exonerate her.”

Indeed, Agnes thought miserably. “If . . . if you don’t mind, I’ll stay on at church a few minutes more. I’ll meet up with you later.”

Mrs. Vance offered a sympathetic smile. “Of course, take all the time you need. Being alone with God can bring comfort to a troubled mind.” She touched Agnes on the shoulder. “Take heart, my dear. We’re all praying for Grace.”

“Thank you,” Agnes said. Oh, how she longed for that comfort! After the women departed, she returned to the cool interior of the church and sat in the pew she’d vacated just moments before. Bowing her head, she clasped her hands together and closed her eyes.

What should she pray for? Grace would only be released if Sir Marcus discovered it was Agnes who had written the code into the letter. How was she to pray for both Grace and herself at the same time? It would indeed require a miracle . . .

“Morning, Agnes.”

She started, turned, and sucked in a breath. “Dykes!”

The devil himself sat next to her. Agnes quickly scanned the empty church, then turned to him. “Why are you here?” she whispered.

“I figured to find you here on a Sunday. You didn’t go with the others.” Eyes the color of amber pierced her. “Guilty conscience, maybe?” He smiled thinly. “Still, it’s good we got a bit of privacy. And Roxwood’s an easier distance than Margate.”

Margate.
The others thought she’d gotten lost, but Agnes had been meeting with Dykes. He’d been angry, demanding her immediate return with Grace Mabry to London.

“You should have come back to the city when you had the chance,” he said, reading her thoughts. “I had a feeling it was
you and not Miss Mabry who wanted to leave in the first place. And now look at what you’ve done to her.”

Agnes’s insides cramped with guilt. In Margate, she’d managed to stall for more time, telling him of Lord Roxwood’s identity—Chaplin’s pursuer, and a man of whom they both had knowledge. “You were interested enough in Jack Benningham at the time to have me see what I could find out.”

His features hardened. “And you promised me information.”

She reared back. “I kept my word.”

Fortune had smiled on her when Violet Arnold arrived without a maid. While up at the manor, Agnes had eavesdropped on a conversation between Roxwood and Sir Marcus about a secret Q port at Richborough.

“Did you now?” he asked, arching a golden brow at her.

“I did send you her letter.” The night of the dance when the others had left, Agnes found inside her mistress’s bag the letter Grace had started to her father. She coded it with the information she’d learned and posted the letter on Monday. “Miss Mabry’s in jail because of it,” she added. “Isn’t that proof enough?”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t matter.” He withdrew from inside his jacket a small, wrapped parcel. “Take this.”

Agnes eyed the package with apprehension. How could she have been so stupid to think that even after Grace’s arrest, this man would leave her alone? “What is it?”

“New instructions,” he said in a low voice. “Since your last letter was snatched up by the bobbies, you’ll have to send another.”

“But . . . Miss Mabry is in jail. Whose letters can I use to send the message?”

“You write it this time.”

“Me?” Panic squeezed her chest. “Why don’t I just tell you what I know,” she said quickly. “Then you can be on your way.”

His low chuckle echoed inside the church. “You know that’s not how we do business, Agnes.
You
put the information in writing so
I
can send it on to our friends.”

“And your hands stay clean,” she said bitterly. “Where do I send this letter? I have no one back in London save Miss Mabry.”

“Write to me at Swan’s. Since both the father and the daughter are in jail—”

Agnes gasped. “Patrick Mabry’s in jail, too?” She didn’t think the others knew.

He nodded. “Anyway, no one will notice if Miss Mabry’s maid writes to Swan’s floor manager asking for wages.” A pause. “His business seems to be going sour with the scandal, so your letter won’t cause suspicion. In fact, I’m already handing out notices. So just code your letter like before and send it to me.”

“But what if you’re wrong? The police might decide to check my letter.”

He indicated the package. “You’ll be using a different kind of invisible ink. Sodium nitrate. Unlike lemon juice, it can’t be detected with heat. And it’s fairly new, so the Admiralty won’t be looking for it.”

“Don’t make me do this.” Agnes didn’t care that she sounded desperate.

“You’ve come too far, lovey,” he said coldly. “You not only have your mum and sister to worry about, but your own neck, too.” He rose from the pew and eyed her sharply. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, or you’ll find yourself standing with your mistress in front of the firing squad.”

Dykes left the church while blood pounded in Agnes’s ears. With a sob, she got down on her knees and prayed fervently to God, begging to be released from the burden. Yet it seemed hopeless, for Dykes had been clear.

Agnes would lose her family—and her life—if she failed.

“Good morning, Miss Mabry.”

Grace glanced toward the door of her cell. “Sir Marcus.” She raised herself to a sitting position on the bed. “Why are you here?”

“I thought to give you a bit of company this morning.” He entered and grabbed up the only chair the cramped space afforded and placed it next to the bed.

“I’d prefer the company of my father. When can I see him?”

“When you provide the information Cromwell wants.”

Dear God, please help us.
Grace blinked back tears of exhaustion. She’d been locked up three days and they had yet to give her news about Da. “Can you at least tell me if he’s well?”

Sir Marcus nodded. “He seems to be coping with his confinement.”

His words gave her little relief. Standing, Grace asked, “May I be allowed to attend church? It is Sunday, after all.” She longed to be free of this cage.

“Unfortunately, no,” he answered. “However, I can send for a chaplain, if you wish.”

“Last rites?” she snapped. When he didn’t react, she felt a chill ripple through her. The past few days had been all too real. Cromwell grew more impatient with her each day. Soon she feared a trial, and then . . .

“I’m innocent, Sir Marcus.” Impulsively she reached for his sleeve. “Please believe me.” Her voice broke and she let go, looking away from him.

He cleared his throat. “How well do you know Mrs. Agnes Pierpont?”

She turned back, surprised at the question. “Why do you ask?”

“Tell me about your maid” was all he said.

Curious, Grace returned to her place on the bed. “I discovered Agnes outside my father’s establishment back in January,” she began. “It was cold and she was hungry and seemed desperate for funds. She told me she’d been a lady’s maid in her homeland of Belgium. She’d met and married a British national, Edgar, who brought her to this country just before the war. He disappeared when Parliament enforced the conscription laws. As my own lady’s maid had departed unexpectedly, I gave Agnes the position. She’s been with me ever since.”

“Have you always treated her more as a companion than a maid?”

“Did she tell you that?” Grace straightened and stared at him.

He nodded. “You have friends in the Women’s Forage Corps, Miss Mabry. Each has come forward to share her personal story about how you helped them, in order to vouchsafe your character.”

Grace fought tears, and her heart swelled with a fierce love for her sisters. “I cannot believe they would go to such lengths for me,” she whispered.

“It seems you did the same for them,” Sir Marcus said. “I know you helped Lucy.”

“Did you speak with them then?”

He shook his head. “Tell me more about Agnes Pierpont.”

What was he getting at? She held on to her patience. “Yes, Agnes was more my friend than a servant. We went everywhere together—shopping, the museums and art galleries. And after learning how Edgar had mistreated her, I encouraged her to join me at the suffrage rallies. I wanted her to realize her value and know she needn’t be dependent on anyone else, save God, to find happiness.”

His honey-brown eyes shone with admiration. “I take it she attended social functions with you, as well? Did she also attend the costume ball where you first met Jack?”

Grace nodded. “Agnes showed me the announcement in the paper. Lady Bassett was hosting a ball to benefit the Red Cross. The reporter mentioned that several persons excused from duty at the Front would be attending as a form of community service.” She looked down at her lap. “Agnes and I had gone to a rally just the day before, so we decided to sneak into the party and hand out white feathers of cowardice.”

“Were you with her the entire time?”

She blinked. “Yes . . . I mean, we arrived together, but then separated to pass out our feathers. Once Jack departed, the butler escorted Agnes and me from the house. Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Has Mrs. Pierpont at any time had access to your personal things?”

“I . . . suppose.” She glanced up at him in shock. “You don’t think Agnes had anything to do with this? All of us kept our bags beneath our beds at the gatehouse. Anyone could have snooped.” Her cheeks warmed. “I confess I did that very thing.”

He arched a brow.

“The day the pigs got out, I’d gone upstairs to fetch my heavy gloves. When I couldn’t find mine, I thought to check and see if Agnes had a pair. There was a photograph in her bag, of her mother and sister, I think. She’d never shown it to me.”

“What did you do with the picture?”

“I put it back,” she assured him. “And I didn’t mention it to her. I’d hoped Agnes would eventually trust me enough to show it to me herself.”

Sir Marcus’s brows drew together. “She never mentioned having a family to Jack.”

“Jack?” Grace’s heart thudded in her chest. “He spoke with her and the others?”

He hesitated, then nodded. Grace hardly dared breathe. “Does he believe I’m innocent?”

“I cannot say.” His expression turned guarded. “But he’s promised your friends to help if he can. And when he called me yesterday, I gave him my word to look out for you.”

“He called you? Then he’s changed his mind about me! Does he realize my family is innocent, too? My father, my brother—”

“Hold on. One thing at a time,” Sir Marcus cautioned. “There was proof against your father on board the ship that exploded the night of the ball, so his guilt or innocence is still being determined. As far as your brother is concerned, the Army has no word yet on his last known whereabouts.” He paused, his expression grave. “But Grace, there is still the letter . . .”

“Stationery!” Grace shot up from the bed. “Agnes had access to my letter. She borrowed my stationery the night of the village dance. She wanted to write to her family and couldn’t find her own. I’d forgotten to mail my letter to Da, and so she took it along with hers last Monday to the post office.” She stared at him, swallowing, then said, “It must have been her!”

Sir Marcus rose from his chair. “I certainly plan to check it out.” He offered a smile for the first time. “I must leave now. May I get you anything?”

Grace searched his face, excitement coursing through her at the prospect of clearing her name, and her father’s. She also felt anger and hurt over the possibility Agnes had betrayed her. How could she have been so wrong about her maid . . . her friend?

But through the tangle of her emotions, hope emerged, flooding her heart. Jack believed her innocent, or at least he wanted to. “Yes, Sir Marcus. Freedom,” she said softly. “Please, I beg of you, get me out of this place.”

21

Clare felt the late afternoon heat against her back as she pitched more hay into the noisy baler’s chute. A few feet away, Agnes tied off the bales with wire while Becky, Lucy, and Mr. Tillman off-loaded and weighed the bundles before stacking them onto the cart. Tomorrow was the last day of haymaking, and everyone pitched in, except for Mrs. Vance, who had taken over Grace’s duties of record keeping.

“That’s the last of this batch,” Clare called, tossing in a final forkful. “We’ll finish baling the dried windrows over on the west side tomorrow and then take the last shipment to the station on Wednesday.”

“Lucy is leaving for Stonebrooke that day, so who gets to go to Margate?” Becky shouted over the baler. “I want to see my family before we go south to the next job.”

“Mrs. Vance is sending Clare,” Lucy said, after turning off the baler’s motor. “I’ll be taking the t-train out of Canterbury, so Mr. Tillman is going along with her and Agnes.”

Clare leaned the pitchfork against the baler and removed her sweat-stained hat. She walked to the drinking barrel set up beside the cart. “Could it get any hotter than this? I’ll
burn like morning kindling if this keeps up.” She wiped at the perspiration beaded along her brow and slapped the hat back into place.

“I really wanted to go this time,” Becky continued to complain as she moved another bale around. “I need to see my—”

“Your family. Yes, we know, Becky,” Clare said crossly. “Just be glad you have one.”

“Clare? Are you all right?” Lucy asked.

Clare shot her a hostile look, then ladled a cupful of the water. “Daisy’s not in Canterbury, after all.” She’d met with Mr. Pittman, the private investigator, that morning in the village. He’d given her the news he’d received bad information. Her daughter wasn’t anywhere near the area.

Without looking at them, Clare took a drink, then said, “It seems I have to start a new search.”

“Oh, Clare, I’m sorry,” Agnes said as she and Lucy approached. Clare saw Mr. Tillman offer a sympathetic nod, though he remained back and removed his hat. Becky stood off in the distance, sulking.

“Daisy could still be here in Kent,” Lucy said. “Grace would t-tell you to have faith and you’ll find her.”

Clare took another drink of water, then sighed. “She would, wouldn’t she? Has anyone heard anything?”

“We were going to ask you.” Lucy took her turn at the ladle.

Clare glanced at Agnes. “I saw you at the post office this morning, Pierpont. Did you receive any news?”

Agnes had removed her gloves, scratching at her fingers. When she looked up again, she wet her lips and said, “I mailed a letter, but not to Grace. I wrote the assistant manager at Swan’s. Since Mr. Mabry has been arrested, I—”

“Grace’s father was arrested, as well?” Clare’s gaze narrowed. “How do you know?”

Agnes tilted her chin, and Clare could swear she looked
afraid. “I’m sure Lord Roxwood mentioned it on Saturday. Anyway, I wished to find out about my back wages.”

Clare eyed her with disgust. “I’m surprised at you, Agnes Pierpont. Poor Grace
and her father
languish in prison, their very lives hanging in the balance, and you’re worried about a few shillings owed to you as maid?”

“A woman’s got to live, doesn’t she?” As Agnes spoke, she turned a bright hue while she continued scratching at her hands.

“Come on, ladies, let’s finish weighing these bales and get them onto the cart. I’m ready for some supper.” Mr. Tillman put his hat back on and released a bale from the scale before moving to set another in its place. “We’ll cover the whole thing with a tarp and start again first thing in the morning.”

Clare glanced at Lucy, then to Becky, who seemed over her brooding now. Each of them shook their heads, clearly disappointed. Of all people, they would have thought Agnes most loyal to Grace, particularly after the maid shared her story with Lord Roxwood. She practically owed Grace Mabry her life.

Then Clare recalled being chided by Grace for being too quick to judge others—like Sir Marcus Weatherford. And just look what had happened!

She frowned as she went to help the others weigh the last of the bales. It seemed her friend had been wrong about Agnes Pierpont, too.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Jack sat on the divan while Dr. Strom flashed the ophthalmoscope in front of his eyes.

“Remarkable, simply remarkable,” Strom said after a moment. He leaned back in his chair across from Jack and pocketed the instrument. “When I examined you before, Lord Roxwood,
I didn’t detect any damage to the retina, but the speed at which you’ve recovered is amazing. Congratulations.”

Jack drawled, “Yes, now I can look in the mirror and see the brute staring back at me.”

“I said before, your wounds are still healing. You will have scars, but the swelling and coloring will fade. And those injuries were hard won,” he added quietly.

“I imagine with you being a relative of the Mabry family, New Scotland Yard put you through your paces?” Jack said.

“I was a guest at the precinct in Westminster over the weekend, Lord Roxwood.” His tone was sharp. “Fortunately, they weren’t too interested in a country doctor who has spent most of his years living in rural Kent. Thanks to some, they have more important suspects to torment.”

Jack took a deep breath. “I am sorry about Grace . . . Miss Mabry. But the proof is undeniable, as I’m sure you’re already aware—”

“I don’t believe it!” Strom launched from his chair to pace the carpeted floor. “That girl is as sweet as her mother ever was, and more heartsick than I can tell you about her brother’s disappearance.” He spun to face Jack. “Why in heaven’s name would she risk Colin’s life by selling out secrets to the enemy? Why would her father, for that matter?” He began to pace again. “I’m no detective, but something else is at play here.”

“If it makes you feel better, I agree. In fact, I have my friend at the Admiralty looking into it.” Marcus had called him back yesterday, and Jack felt relieved Grace was still in one piece. He’d even been optimistic to learn Agnes Pierpont had borrowed her stationery and posted the incriminating letter. Yet they lacked any real proof to connect her to the deed.

“Strom, how well do you know the women working for the WFC? I’m particularly interested in Miss Mabry’s maid, Agnes Pierpont.”

Strom looked surprised. “I don’t know her well at all, though she is a patient of mine.” He held up his palms. “She’s got some kind of rash on her hands. The skin is irritated, and she’s scratched at them so much they’ve begun to bleed. I bandaged them for her this morning before I came to see you. Why?”

“What did she get into?”

“She said she was handling fertilizer without gloves.” Dr. Strom shrugged. “It doesn’t have the look of stinging nettles or gorse, although I can’t rule it out.”

“Did she say when she contracted this rash?”

“Sunday, I believe.”

Jack shook his head, perplexed.

“Sorry I’m not much help.” Strom moved to grab for his black bag. “You’re healing well, Lord Roxwood. I can call on you again in a couple of weeks, but I think at this point it’s unnecessary, unless some problem arises.”

“I appreciate you keeping the news about my sight confidential,” Jack said. He stood and extended his hand. “I’m not yet ready to publicize it.”

“I don’t understand your reasons, your lordship, but I will respect your wishes.” The two shook hands.

“Thank you,” Jack said. “You once told me to have faith my sight would return. I didn’t want to believe it.”

The physician arched a brow. “And now?”

Jack smiled. “I’m beginning to.” Then he sobered and said, “I’ll do everything in my power to help Grace. I just don’t know how—”

“With faith, son,” Dr. Strom said. “In the end, the truth always wins out.”

“Now I know where Grace gets it from.”

The doctor shook his head. “Lillian Mabry was my uncle’s daughter and had a faith to rival the angels. I’m sure Grace inherited that good trait from her mother.”

Jack watched as Strom departed before he replaced the mask and went into his study to telephone Marcus. “How is she today?” he asked his friend.

“She’s doing rather well, given the circumstances. I think her temper holds her in good stead with Cromwell. I tell you, Jack, except for that confounded letter, even I’d believe her innocent.”

“She didn’t write that code,” Jack said, his jaw set. “We just need to prove it. Did you learn any more about Agnes Pierpont?”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but after talking with Grace on Sunday, I started censoring all mail going in and out of Roxwood,” Marcus said. “A letter postmarked yesterday from Agnes Pierpont was being sent to the attention of Mr. Alfred Dykes at Swan’s in London. In the letter she asks about her back wages.”

Jack leaned against the desk. “That sounds a bit cold, wouldn’t you say? A far cry from the teary-eyed performance I witnessed at the gatehouse. What do you make of it?”

“I agree, it’s odd,” Marcus said. “But we used heat on the letter and didn’t come up with anything other than what she’d written, so it seems legitimate.”

Jack scoured his mind for inconsistencies. An idea began to form, and he asked, “Marcus, aside from lemon juice and the like, are there other types of invisible ink? Before my accident, I remember a report about the enemy starting to use chemical-based substances.”

“Correct,” Marcus said. “Room 40 recently began using spectroscopy to decipher some of those inks.” He paused. “What are you thinking?”

Jack relayed to him the conversation with Strom about Agnes Pierpont’s rash. “He says she claims she got it from fertilizer, but why wouldn’t she have worn gloves?”

“We recently heard the Germans are using sodium nitrate, though it’s relatively new.” Marcus’s tone took on an excited
edge. “It’s soaked into clothing—a tie, a scarf, a handkerchief, so it can be transported without detection. It reactivates with water. The person need only wet the cloth and wring out the moisture to be used as invisible ink. Sodium nitrate
can
irritate the skin, and it’s found in fertilizer. When did the rash occur?”

“Sunday.” Jack’s pulse raced. “Marcus, do you suppose . . . ?”

“Very possibly,” his friend said. “Got to ring off now, old boy, I’ve some investigating to do. I’ll get back as soon as I can.” Then he abruptly hung up.

Jack carefully replaced the telephone’s receiver, seized with a rush of excitement. Grace might be exonerated.

He strode from his study with new purpose. He planned to do some investigating of his own.