The Vanishing Thief

Thwarting her attackers . . .

They tried to pull me into the alley, but a hard stomp on a foot and a bite on a hand let me escape to dash toward the street, holding up the fabric of my ripped skirt. A carriage pulled up, the horses reined in before I collided with them. The Duke of Blackford jumped out. My savior, or reinforcements for my attackers?

I started to dash down the sidewalk, but strong arms grabbed me around the middle, wrapping my cloak tightly around me. I kicked out and hit my pursuer by driving the back of my head into his nose. He let go and I ran. Behind me, I heard grunts and thuds, wood against metal, wood against bone.

I glanced back to see the duke thrash one figure with his cane. As my other attacker rose from the ground, he was pummeled down again. I'd have to pass the fight to return to the safety of Lady Westover's. Too dangerous. I rushed away from the fracas.

Horses whinnied and coach wheels creaked, but no footsteps pursued me. I slowed my pace to a brisk walk, staying as far from the street as I could as I approached the corner. Looking over my shoulder, I saw two figures prone on the ground behind me and a large carriage with four horses nearly at my side.

“Miss Fenchurch.”

I picked up speed. So did the horses, pulling past me.

The duke's familiar baritone came from the coach. “Wait, Miss Fenchurch. I'm trying to rescue you.”

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Copyright © 2013 by Kate Parker.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61735-9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Parker, Kate, 1949–

The vanishing thief / Kate Parker.—Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-425-26660-1 (pbk.)

1. Booksellers and bookselling—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—Fiction. 3. Kidnapping—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Parents—Death—Fiction. 5. Cold cases (Criminal investigation)—Fiction. 6. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3616.A74525V36 2013

813'.6—dc23

2013027648

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / December 2013

Cover illustration by Teresa Fasolino.

Cover design by George Long.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to my mother because she said I had to.

Mothers are frequently right.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

No one creates a story that reaches publication without a great deal of help, and I've been blessed with wonderfully talented, supportive people on this journey. Lara Otis, a librarian at the University of Maryland Libraries, provided me with excellent Victorian-era sources on antiquarian books and their preservation. My daughter, Jennifer, who's always up for a research trip, introduced me to the Linley Sambourne house and other wonders of Victorian London.

Critique partners Hannah Meredith, Nancy Bacon, Gail Hart, and Peggy Parsons have spent years helping me hone the craft of writing. My agent, Jill Marsal of Marsal-Lyons Literary Agency, found the spark in this novel and helped me create a work worthy to be published. My editor, Faith Black, and the unknown artists and copyeditors at Berkley Prime Crime have taken my work a step further to create a book I am so proud to share with the world.

I thank them all. But most of all, I have to thank my husband. Even as he kept telling me to try something different in my writing and to add more bodies, he always believed the day would come when I'd be published and readers would discover my stories.

While the rest of the story is based on solid late-Victorian sources, I willfully threw out everything learned in seven semesters of college chemistry to create amylnitrohydrated sulfate and the fictitious Royal Society. These were created to honor the spirit of Victorian scientific research and the single-minded quests of so many now-famous Victorians. Any other errors, technical or otherwise, are my own.

Chapter One

E
ARLY
spring rain drenched London in a cold damp that either kept customers away or drove them into the bookshop. Today the rain was in our favor. We had three browsers searching the shelves when a woman barreled in, flinging droplets in the musty air and onto the wooden floor. “The Duke of Blackford kidnapped Nicholas Drake and you must save him.”

My assistant, Emma, looked up from the recent arrivals she was discussing with a female customer and said, “Is that a new novel?”

The woman planted thin fists on her hips, shoving back her cloak and displaying a green dress faded to the shade of mushy peas. “No. I'm demanding the Archivist Society do something to free Nicholas Drake from the Duke of Blackford.”

All three customers stared at her, mouths agape. The Archivist Society unfortunately appeared in the penny press occasionally, earning us a notoriety we didn't desire.

I didn't want my customers to learn Emma and I worked for the Archivist Society. Respectable women didn't court notoriety. Even the old queen kept her activities private. And our work required secrecy.

I had to silence this woman. Now.

Stepping forward from the gardening section, I said, “I'm Georgia Fenchurch, owner of Fenchurch's Books. You've come to the right place. We should be able to find answers to your questions about the Archivist Society and the Duke of Blackford as we do for all our customers. Everyone comes here for the most up-to-date sources of information in print.” I swung my arms out to encompass our stock. “Perhaps you'd like to join me in my office. But first, let's do something about your outerwear.”

She put her umbrella in the rack by the door and carried her soggy cloak into the back hall, where I hung it up. We entered my office and she looked around with a little sniff.

The room was a trifle crowded. Truthfully, the tiny space was stuffed, with two chairs, a desk, record storage cabinets, piles of books, and very little room to walk. But it was my office and I was happy with it. I moved the books off both chairs and, at my gesture, she sat in one chair and I on the other.

I was determined not to waste time. We might have more customers come into the shop, even in this rainstorm, and I make it a practice never to miss a sale. I can't afford to. “Who are you? And why have you come to me?”

“I'm Edith Carter. My next-door neighbor, Nicholas Drake, was abducted from his home by the Duke of Blackford in the duke's carriage last Thursday at eleven in the evening.” The words spilled out in one quick gush as if she were afraid I'd stop her. If she'd gone into a long explanation, I would have.

“Have you been to the police?” I really hoped she hadn't so I could throw her out. I had paying customers to wait on.

“Yes. They spoke to his housekeeper, who said he'd gone to Brighton to visit a friend. They believed her.”

“Perhaps he did.”

“I saw him dragged out to the duke's high, antique carriage and tossed inside. Besides, would you go to Brighton in this weather?”

As if in answer, rain mixed with ice beat on the windowpanes looking out over the back alley, and the wind howled through every crevice. “Perhaps it's nicer in Brighton.”

“Not until summer.” She was snapping her answers at me.

I wasn't going to be dragged into a discussion about weather. I wanted her gone. “I repeat, why come to me?”

She smoothed her skirt, ignoring the mud splatter on the hem as she dug into her bag. “I saved this article from a recent newspaper. It contains the symbol of the Archivist Society, the same as you have in your front window. It also contains a picture of an unnamed young woman member of the Archivist Society. That member is you.”

I don't know how the reporter learned I was a member. I don't advertise my membership. And the black-and-white portrait didn't show my better features, a pair of violet eyes and a long, graceful neck. However, if Edith Carter could recognize me that easily, perhaps my better features weren't that impressive.

“You don't need anyone's help to ask the Duke of Blackford if he knows where Mr. Drake is. You said the duke's carriage was involved. You should talk to him.”

“I did ask him. He threw me out. He was frightfully rude. He—he threatened me.”

Interesting. “Threatened you how, Miss Carter?”

“He said if I didn't leave his house immediately and stop asking questions about Mr. Drake, he would have me arrested and thrown into prison.” The woman whispered the last word with terror in her eyes.

“Those were his exact words? Stop asking questions about Mr. Drake?”

“Yes. I've tried to be as accurate as possible.”

“What do you hope the Archivist Society can accomplish?”

“Talk to the Duke of Blackford. Ask him to release Mr. Drake. I can't afford a ransom, but I doubt a man as rich as the duke would need one.” The woman reached across the space between us and clutched my hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “You must help me. I've nowhere else to go. The police won't listen to me. And Nicholas is such a fine person.”

Nicholas? I recognized the glow in the woman's eyes and the blush on her cheeks. Nothing could compel me to help her more than to see his importance in her heart. “You're in love with him.”

Miss Carter jerked back as if I'd slapped her. Casting her eyes down, she said, “No. No, of course not.”

I counted slowly in my head until the woman revealed all.

I'd reached nine when Edith Carter turned her head to the side. “He's unobtainable. I don't wish to discuss this.”

“He's married?”

Miss Carter gasped. “No. Not at all. Why would you say such a thing?”

“It's the most logical explanation as to why he's unobtainable.”

The woman looked everywhere but at me. “It's a private matter. That's all I'll say on the subject.”

Miss Carter was lying to me. I was willing to bet Nicholas Drake was married. Edith Carter wasn't prepared to reveal the truth, and that made her a terrible client. In spite of my doubts, I began the usual list of questions. “How long have you been Mr. Drake's next-door neighbor?”

“Since I moved in a year ago.”

“Who moved in with you?”

“I—my parents.”

“And you hope that if you organize Mr. Drake's rescue, he will feel what? Indebted to you?”

Edith Carter looked me straight in the eye. “I prefer his high regard, his love, to a debt of friendship.”

“Do your parents approve of him?”

“They are not your concern. Mr. Drake is.”

Miss Carter showed every sign of already being in a relationship with Mr. Drake. Since she appeared to be near thirty, perhaps her parents were not as worried about chaperoning her as they ought to be. Maybe she would get the happy ending I never could. A home and family with the man she loved.

I kept searching for a hole in her story. “You said you looked out last Thursday night at eleven and saw the Duke of Blackford's coach.”

“Yes. I told you.”

“You're completely certain the coach belonged to the Duke of Blackford. You couldn't have made a mistake about that?”

“I'm absolutely certain. The fog hadn't yet come in. The coach was stopped near a street lamp. It was the ancient, tall carriage with the matching black horses he always uses. I could see the crest clearly from my bedroom window. It was the Blackford crest. Two men, thugs in his employ no doubt, although they didn't wear livery, carried a third man out of the house. Mr. Drake.”

“You saw his face?”

“Who else could it have been?”

Georgia suggested, “The duke visited and was taken ill.”

Miss Carter dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “The duke would never make a call in my neighborhood. I have no doubt it was Mr. Drake who was carried out.”

“What is Mr. Drake's occupation?”

“He's a broker, arranging sales of artworks and jewelry between buyers and sellers.”

“Perhaps the duke was there as either a buyer or seller and was taken ill during the negotiations. Perhaps this or another business arrangement required Mr. Drake to travel to Brighton.” I spread my hands in a gesture of defeat.

“He would have told me if he needed to travel to Brighton or had a duke calling. You have to help us. Please. No one else can or will help. I haven't much money to pay for your services, but . . .”

This was a woman deeply in love. Despite my misgivings about her honesty, I knew I couldn't turn her down. She could lie about the facts, but her emotions were genuine. I knew. I'd had the same desperation in my voice when I'd cornered Sir Broderick a dozen years before, begging for his help in rescuing my parents. The mixture of grief and fear choking off the ability to speak can't be faked. My heart still ached over my failure to save my parents, and every time I heard that anguish in someone's voice, I was driven to ease my pain by helping a fellow sufferer.

Even as I called myself a fool, I said, “I'll speak to the duke. Then we'll see if we have enough to begin a search.”

Miss Carter stood and nodded. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Life without Nicholas is unbearable. And when I saw the blood on the floor—”

“What?” I sprang from my chair.

“When Mrs. Cummings, his housekeeper, arrived that morning, she found a pool of blood in the front hall. She cleaned it up, but it stained the wood.”

“Did either of you tell the police this?”

“I did, but she denied it. It was just a stain when they arrived and could have been anything.”

People didn't bleed profusely from business discussions. Not real blood. But people did kill for money, and I still knew nothing about Nicholas Drake or his finances. “Do you know anything of the items he was brokering currently?”

“No. But the Duke of Blackford is a terrible man. Mr. Drake was afraid of him.” She reached out and grabbed my hands. Her grip hurt.

“Did he say why?”

“He said the duke's sister killed a friend of his. He's afraid his life's in danger, since he knows what really happened.”

“What happened? When was this?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Before I moved next door, so it was over a year ago. I won't say exactly what happened, but it had to do with the death of the duke's intended bride.”

“You need to tell me what happened.”

“I was sworn to secrecy. But I will say the duke and his fiancée had a terrible row over his sister. The next day, the sister and the fiancée met, and the fiancée was dead within the hour. Mr. Drake's life was threatened if he ever spoke of those events to anyone.”

“Do you know where we can find a photograph of Mr. Drake? It would be very helpful if we could recognize him.”

She let go of my hands and reached into a pocket. Gently she smoothed the back of the thick paper then handed the photo to me. It was postcard size, taken in a photography studio in Durham, showing a fair-haired young man with a pleasant face trying very hard to look serious and failing.

“May I keep this, please, for copying? I'll return it to you unharmed.”

After a moment, she nodded.

I wrote down a few details and ushered Miss Carter into her cloak. As we walked to the front door of the shop, I saw all three customers had wandered into travel, the section closest to the office. All three were closely examining books, their faces averted. Emma stood with them, her business smile in place.

Miss Carter bid me good day and left, holding her umbrella at an angle to block the wind and rain. Then I turned and faced our customers. “Does anyone need help?”

With the excitement over, all three paid for their purchases and left, leaving Emma and me in an empty shop.

“Do we have a case, Georgia?”

“Possibly. I don't trust her, but the story is so amazing it may be true. Can you handle the shop by yourself?”

Emma glanced around the vacant shop and gave me a dry stare. I've seen strong men grovel at her feet after such a look, probably because of her blond beauty. After working with her for years, I hardly noticed anymore that men looked around me to stare at her.

That didn't mean that her youth, good looks, and self-assurance didn't annoy me on occasion. Not bothering to hide my sarcasm, I said, “Since you have no objections, I'll be absent for a few hours. More if I float down the Thames. Don't leave until I return.”

She picked up a novel and sat on the stool behind the counter. The new electric chandelier above her gave perfect light for reading, even on a day when gray, waterlogged light came in the large front windows of the shop. “I have everything I need.”

I checked the omnibus schedule and found the one I needed to take me into the new suburbs northwest of town. The vehicle was jammed but dry, and I managed to get a seat where I could look through the window at the activity outside. Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalk bundled in drab wool, pale faces peering out from under umbrellas and hats.