The Royal Assassin (18 page)

I was lost in a story when a young man hurried into the office, pulling his suspenders over his shirt as he came in. “What are you doing?”

The duke faced him. “Who are you?”

The man straightened and looked Blackford in the eye. “Nicolai Mukovski. Who are you?”

“I'm the—”

If this man was an anarchist, there was no way Blackford's next words would get us anything but a debate. “Georgia Fenchurch, and we're here from the Archivist Society. Actually, it's what's on the third floor that concerns us. That, and the kidnapping of a young woman.”

“Then you should be on the third floor. You English claim you believe in property rights, but then you storm through here like the Okhrana, the secret police, looking at everything.” His heavy accent sounded like Princess Kira's. Even if I hadn't heard his name, I would have known he had to be a Russian immigrant.

“Unlike the secret police, we haven't destroyed anything.” I gave him a smile. “We just wanted to make sure you weren't involved in that gang on the third floor.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “They pay our rent and a stipend to our workers, but they are not believers in our cause. We keep our mouths shut, and they protect us from raids from your police.”

“Have the police ever raided you?” Blackford demanded.

“No,” the man admitted.

“Then why would you need protection from them?”

“It's only a matter of time. The agents of the Okhrana are everywhere. The capitalist masters don't like us to spread our
message of equality.” His thin face was split by a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Before Blackford could begin a debate, I said, “Have you seen what your proletariat brothers have set up on the third floor?”

He looked at me, puzzled.

“Come with us.” We all marched up to the third floor. In the light of our two lanterns, we could see the paintings had been taken off the walls and the doors stood open.

“They didn't come by us,” the footmen said.

Blackford strode into the parlor and pointed to a safe standing open in the corner. “You don't keep equality in one of those.”

Mukovski blinked as he looked around him at the pristine draperies and ornate furniture. “We'd see them carry crates in and out of here, but they paid us not to notice such things.”

“I'll bet they did,” Blackford muttered.

“All the small items have been removed,” I said, walking to check the bedrooms. It was the same in all three rooms. The furniture was in place, but all the small, valuable objects were gone, along with any clothing. Still, the draperies, wallpaper, and furnishings showed these had been elegant surroundings in the midst of East End squalor.

I turned to Mukovski, who'd followed me from room to room, his eyes and mouth round. “Did the people who lived here ever invite you or your comrades to these rooms?”

“They hired one of the women to clean for them. Stories went around, but they let us know we weren't welcome up here.”

I made a sweeping gesture toward the rooms. “It appears your protectors have deserted you. That'll mean no more money for food or broadsheets. They don't deserve your loyalty. When did they come back tonight to remove their things?”

He surveyed rooms that had lost their lived-in appearance and his shoulders slumped. “Half an hour after the fighting outside ended. It was only Ivanov and Griekev. They filled up a wagon and left not more than ten minutes before you arrived.”

“We saw a wagon come into the yard next door and leave later on. We didn't think anything of it. They headed east,” one of the footmen said.

“They had to take their valuables somewhere. Where did they go?” Blackford demanded.

“They didn't tell me.” Mukovski jutted his jaw out.

“And you didn't ask,” Blackford said. “That shows a great deal of equality in your dealings with them.”

Mukovski gave him an angry stare and turned to leave.

Blast
. If anyone knew where those thugs had taken their loot, it would be this man. And Blackford had set Mukovski against us with his regal attitude.

I grabbed the printer's arm and said, “Please. Do you have any idea where they could have gone? They poisoned their kidnap victim and we want to know if there's an antidote.” When he hesitated, I pressed on. “Emma's a friend of mine. A dear friend. I want to save her life, if it's possible.”

“Emma Sumner?”

Was that what she'd called herself during this investigation? “Yes. The men who lived on this floor poisoned her. I want to save her. Help us.” Desperation rang in my voice.

“Emma is a good soul.” He ran a hand through his longish, limp hair. “But I think her husband, Sumner, is a Russian secret policeman. A member of Okhrana. Him I do not trust.”

I shook my head. “No. Sumner was a British Army officer before he was wounded. He works for the Archivist Society, the
same group Emma and I work for. We are dedicated to getting justice for people when the police fail. There's nothing secret about our work.” Well, not much, I admitted to myself.

He studied me for a minute. “You are sure Sumner is not Okhrana?”

“Very sure.”

“But Griekev said he was Okhrana.”

“Griekev's a liar. Please. Help us help Emma. Where could Griekev and Ivanov have gone?”

“I followed them once. Mistrust is bred into us. They have a warehouse about three blocks away.” He gave us the street and described the location.

“I know it,” Jacob said.

The men all rushed downstairs, leaving me with Mukovski. “Thank you,” I told him. As we started down the stairs, I said, “Those two-shilling editions you printed. Are those volumes licensed? Do you pay the author and translator?”

“Of course we do. It would be against our principles not to pay the workman. Those books were all written by Russians living in this neighborhood. Why?”

“I own a bookshop. I liked some of the stories I saw in your office. Who distributes your books?” I knew which of my customers loved fiction. I thought I could try to sell a few copies and see if they proved popular.

“We do it ourselves. No one will handle our work. We are outcasts. Immigrants.”

“I'll be busy today, but come by Fenchurch's Books near Leicester Square tomorrow at opening time and bring some samples of your work. Preferably fiction.”

His lower jaw dropped open and then slammed shut. “You're making fun of us.”

“Come by Fenchurch's Books tomorrow morning and see if I'm making fun of you.”

He studied my face for a moment and then gave one sharp nod of his head.

There was one more thing I needed to know. “Do you know if a young woman named Nadia Andropov is staying with a family around here?”

He hesitated. Finally he said, “Yes. They live on the second floor in the back, above the printing presses.”

So Nadia would have known Ivanov and Griekev. Was she as wary of them as Mukovski seemed to be?

I
caught up with Blackford by his coach. “I want to talk to the family Nadia has been living with.”

“Do you know where they live?”

“Thanks to Mukovski, yes. Second floor in the back.”

We found their rooms, but only an old woman and two children were there. The old woman spoke no English, but the children, a boy and a girl in worn but clean clothes, sounded like any other residents of the East End.

“Do you know Nadia?” I asked.

“Who wants to know?” the boy, the younger of the two, replied. His jaw jutted out mulishly and he fisted his small hands on tiny hips.

Blackford reached into his vest pocket and came out with a half crown. “This wants to know.”

Both children's eyes lit up. The boy said, “And one for my sister.”

“For everything you know. Everything,” I said.

Blackford produced the coin's mate, but held on to them tightly above the boy's reach. The girl stayed behind the youngster, half-hidden by the door.

“She lives in the building and is comrades with the thief,” the boy said.

“The thief?”

“Griekev.”

“Are they good friends?”

“Seems that way.”

“She doesn't live here?” I pressed.

“Where would there be room for the likes of her? She has her own space. We just pretend to be her family if anyone comes snooping around,” the boy continued.

“Why would anyone come snooping around?” Blackford asked.

“You have, ain't ya?”

“So why are you telling us this?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Because she left and she ain't comin' back,” the boy said. “And your money's too good to pass up.”

“How do you know she's not coming back?”

“Took all her things with her. Gave my gran a few shillings and thanked her. Said none of us would have to go back to Russia now.”

“You're afraid you'll be sent back to Russia?” Talking to this boy was fascinating although I was confused by the conversation.

“Nobody likes anarchists. Or the poor.”

“Princess Nadia is the daughter of an evil prince, and her wicked stepmother, his wife, wants her dead. She has beautiful clothes and jewels,” the girl said with a note of wonder in her voice as she twisted her braid. “She let me wear her necklace once.”

“Where did she get her beautiful clothes and jewels?”

Both children shrugged their thin shoulders in unison.

We got nothing more out of them for Blackford's two half crowns. We climbed into the carriage with Jacob and rode away, the footmen riding on the back of the coach. We stopped at Scotland Yard while Blackford went inside with the silver lamp to report our findings.

After a lengthy wait, during which I nearly fell asleep, he returned. “The police were most interested in what we discovered,” he told me. “Inspector Grantham is organizing a raid on the warehouse as we speak.”

“Are we going with them, Your Grace?” Jacob asked.

“We're not going anywhere until I find out how Emma is,” I told them. The scowl I gave them must have warned them not to disagree.

When we arrived at my home, we found Phyllida asleep in a chair in the parlor. Tiptoeing past her, I went to Emma's room. Sumner sat on the edge of her bed running his hand over her wrist.

“She looks better, don't you think?” he asked me. His voice sounded like distant thunder coming at me from the side of the bed.

“Her coloring is definitely better. What did the doctor say?”

“He thinks it's a laudanum overdose. As long as she keeps breathing, she should eventually wake up.” He finally turned to look at me. “Phyllida had this idea to keep sticking things like onions and garlic under her nose to stir her. Then I started running her hairbrush up and down her arms. Seems to have worked. Her breathing's regular now.”

“You've done a good job.”

He glared at me. “If I'd done a good job, Emma wouldn't have been in danger.”

“She'd be the first one to tell you not to think you're so important. She can take care of herself.”

“No. That's going to be my job from now on.” He held my gaze. “She agreed, before all this, to become my wife.”

If she agreed, then Emma must be very happy about this change to her life. I burst out laughing and crying at once. “Best wishes. Oh, I'm so happy for you! Did you tell Phyllida?”

“Yes. She seemed pleased.”

“She gets to be the mother of a bride. She must be over the moon.”

Phyllida walked in stiffly, followed by Blackford, and looked from one of us to the other. “All is well?”

“You've heard the good news?” I asked Blackford.

He reached over and shook Sumner's hand. “My congratulations. We'll talk later. For now, Jacob and I need to find out what's happening with the police raid on Griekev and Ivanov's warehouse. I'm certain they're the thieves who robbed the homes of the Marquis of Shepherdston, Lord Walker, and the others.”

“I'll go with you, Your Grace. I imagine Georgia wants to take a turn at Emma's bedside.”

I patted Sumner's shoulder. “Thank you,” I whispered, overcome by his generosity. I'd never had any siblings, but it felt like I was gaining a brother by marriage.

“You can both go if you want. I can stay with Emma,” Phyllida said.

“I don't mind staying, and you need some rest. Jacob can represent the Archivist Society as well as I can.” I turned to Blackford. “You'd better get moving. If Ivanov or Griekev goes back to their hideout for a second load, they'll learn we were there and they'll move everything out of their warehouse before the police arrive. The Russians will escape to steal again, or even to flee England.” By the time I finished speaking, I was shoving the two men from Emma's room.

Blackford gave me a bow. Sumner gave me a wink and hurried his boss away. Then I pulled up a chair to Emma's bedside. “Do you want to sit here, Aunt Phyllida?”

She did, and I sat on the edge of the bed. “Georgia, when Emma recovers, we're going to have to plan a wedding.” Her narrow face widened to accommodate her smile.

“Yes, but while she's recovering, I'll need to hear what she learned and saw at the anarchists' hideout.”

“Are they anarchists or are they thieves?”

“Both. The two groups made a pact that was mutually beneficial. We disrupted that in rescuing Emma, but the thieves have yet to be caught.”

“And it was the thieves who—” Phyllida made a gesture toward Emma's sleeping figure.

“Yes. They're the ones Blackford, Jacob, Sumner, and the police are going after now.”

“I hope they catch them.” Phyllida's tone was as grim as I'd ever heard her use.

We had a half hour wait before Emma finally shifted in bed and opened her eyes. She looked from Phyllida to me and whispered, “What happened?”

“Do you remember the building in the East End?”

Her lids started to close, only to jerk open as she shoved herself into a half-sitting, half-leaning position. “You rescued me?”

“Sumner got us. We all went and rescued you.”

“Have you caught Griekev? He's behind the thefts and the plot against the visiting Russian grand duke.”

“He's moved his stolen goods out of the building you were in, but Mukovski told us about a warehouse he has a few blocks away. The police have probably already raided it.”

She nodded and slid back under the covers. “I'm so tired.”

“I'm not surprised. Getting engaged and being kidnapped all in one day must be tiring.”

When Emma's eyes flew open once more, it was to see me grinning at her. “Sumner told you?”

“Yes.”

“I would have told you after the investigation was over.”

“I know.”

“You're not angry?”

“Why should I be angry if you're happy? You've always been meant to live a full life. A lucky life. But you'd better hurry and recover or Aunt Phyllida will have your wedding planned before you get a say in anything.”

Phyllida laughed, a sound we seldom heard even after all these years that she'd been free from her brother. “I will not. But I do have a few ideas,” she added.

“Fine. Just not today.” Emma's eyes drifted closed. “Someone is telling Griekev what to do.”

“Wait.” I shook her shoulder. “Emma, he has a boss?”

“A partner. I don't know who. A woman, I think. I heard her voice once. Someone smarter than he is.”

Then the only sounds in the room were Emma's soft snores and a gentle sigh of relief from Phyllida and me. After a few minutes, we rose and shuffled to the kitchen. I was drooping from weariness, and Phyllida appeared too stiff to move.

“Would you be a sweet girl and make some fresh tea? My old bones aren't letting me get around like I want to this morning,” Phyllida said.

I put the kettle on and said, “You can't imagine how relieved I am. I think you and Emma have earned a nice rest this morning. After you both get some sleep, you'll feel much better.”

The look she gave me was uncharacteristically hard. “And
you, Georgia? Don't you deserve some rest?” She lowered herself slowly into a chair, and I brought the sugar and milk to the table.

“Once Ivanov and Griekev are in custody and we've eliminated the danger to Princess Kira, I'm certain I'll sleep for a week. Today, I need to arrive at Hereford House at my usual time. At least I can bathe first.”

“Could you fix breakfast before you leave? There's some bread and eggs in the icebox.”

Phyllida was looking thinner and paler than usual after her ordeal. My heart ached for her as badly now as hers must have hurt for Emma during the night. “Of course.”

I opened up the tin-lined wooden box, pulled out what I needed from above the block of ice, and began a process Phyllida had spared me for years.

I hated to cook, but she enjoyed it, and life in our house went smoothly when we stayed with our God-given talents.

Apparently the day was going to be as topsy-turvy as the night had been. I juggled the various tasks as well as I could, Phyllida exclaiming when I dropped a hot pan and when smoke rose from the eggs. Finally, I placed our breakfast on the table and sat down with her as she poured me a cup of tea.

Taking a long, grateful sip, I set down my cup and watched Phyllida's nose twitch as she sampled a forkful of eggs and bread. “It's too bad your mother never taught you to cook.”

“She tried. I wasn't a good pupil. I'd rather have been working with my father in the bookshop.”

“I've been teaching Emma to cook,” she said with studied nonchalance, studying her plate.

“For how long?”

“A few months. We thought it might be a good idea. Sumner
had been calling on her despite there not being an investigation to serve as an excuse.”

I ran my mind over the past few months. Sumner dropped by the bookshop regularly, but I had always thought it was to check out the newest releases. He seemed to be a fan of Mrs. Hepplewhite. Emma started running all the household errands, but I had thought she was merely being helpful.

They had been courting, and I was so wrapped in a cocoon of book shipments and ledgers that I'd never noticed. Perhaps because every time I saw Sumner, my thoughts immediately traveled to Blackford. I often wondered where he was.

Knowing it would bring me no comfort, I never asked.

I sent Phyllida to bed after breakfast, did the dishes, bathed, and dressed, all while moving lethargically. Guilt almost made me wear a work corset pulled loosely rather than wake Phyllida to help with a dressier one. In the end I woke her because I needed to look tidy. My clothes would mask my sleep-starved state.

I glanced up once to see the duke's folding knife sitting on my dresser. I hugged the handle with my hand, remembering Blackford's efforts the previous night for Emma and loving him for his determination. I slipped his knife into my pocket, hoping for an early opportunity to return it.

Despite my weariness, I was dressed in time to check on the bookshop before I had to leave for Hereford House. It seemed fitting somehow that I had to wear a waterproof cloak and put up my umbrella against what appeared to be the start of a daylong rain.

When I went to retrieve my ledgers, Charles Dickens, our neighborhood cat, was curled up in my chair in the office. I walked over to him and found myself faced with his slit-eyed stare. His look dared me to move him as much as any words could.

I put a hand on his bottom to shove him out of my way and discovered he could somehow change his body mass to become too heavy to move. He seemed to weigh twenty stone. Then he reached out one back foot and scratched my wrist with his claws.

I jumped back, sucking on my wounded hand while Dickens gave me a haughty look that clearly said,
I was here first.

I picked up the ledgers and carried them out to the counter in the shop, turning on the lights as I went. A moment later, I heard a knock on the door despite the Closed sign hanging in plain sight.