The Vanishing Thief (15 page)

I walked directly to the massive Georgian club near Whitehall, ignoring the odd looks I collected from passersby. With fingers crossed, I rang the bell at the front door and waited for the club's butler to answer.

A man in full livery opened the door, looked at me, sniffed, and said, “The tradesmen's entrance is around the side.”

Before he could shut the door, I shoved my calf kid buttoned boot in the doorway and held out the note. “For Lord Dutton-Cox. I think he'll see me out here.”

He took the note, I removed my foot, and he shut the door. At least he hadn't denied Dutton-Cox was there. Something I'd hoped but not been certain of.

And he hadn't noticed I wore fashionable, practically new boots with my disguise.

I lingered outside for five minutes, keeping an eye out for the local bobby in case the doorman summoned the police instead of Lord Dutton-Cox.

Finally, the front door opened and a balding, stoop-shouldered man appeared. He walked toward me with a frown and a glance over his thin shoulder before he asked quietly, holding up my note, “What is this about? I had no hand in my daughter's death, and I will call the police if you say I did.”

“Nicholas Drake was there, and he says differently.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Go away.” The paper I'd sent in to him shook in his hand.

“Drake told me what he saw that day. Now that he's missing, I'm willing to keep silent. For a price.”

His eyes welled up with tears. “Then he saw more than I did. I lost my daughter at what should have been the happiest time of her life. Now I'm losing my wife to her grief, and we don't know why Victoria died. She was sickly as a child and we were always careful to coddle her. I've always believed her weak heart gave out, but my wife—. Please, if you know anything, tell me.”

The mournful tone in his voice shocked me into silence. I hadn't expected his grief, and now I was mortified by my thoughtless prying. I stood there gaping at him, wishing I could take back my words. Since I couldn't do that, I hoped the sidewalk would swallow me up.

“You don't know anything, do you? You just wanted to profit from our great misfortune. Go away and leave me in peace with my sorrow.” He turned and rushed back into his club, crushing my message in his hand.

I stood on the sidewalk with my mouth open until I realized how ridiculous I must have looked. If the words I'd surprised out of him were genuine, and I thought they were, Lord Dutton-Cox knew what state his wife was in and was as heartbroken as she.

Drake was blackmailing them over something other than their daughter's death. Whatever it was, Dutton-Cox didn't act like he had any concerns about Drake, so why would he go to the trouble of abducting the missing man? I was certain I could eliminate him from suspicion.

At the sound of a carriage pulling up, I glanced at the street and recognized the Duke of Merville's crest on the door. I was in luck, but I'd have to improvise.

I stepped into his path between the carriage and the door to the club and said, “How is your son David?”

His face paled and his mouth opened and shut twice before he gasped out, “I don't know what you're talking about. Go away.”

“There are those who know about David and are willing to keep silent. For a price.”

“Name your price. Just go away.” He didn't seem angry. He kept glancing around and the red creeping up his face appeared to be embarrassment at the danger of being seen with me.

“A pound.”

“And you'll never come back.”

“It's a deal. What was your deal with Drake?”

“Damnation. You learned about this from him, didn't you?”

“Maybe.” I wasn't about to tell him his wife had told me.

“I don't know what he told you or why he put you up to this, but I wish he and you would just stay away. This is embarrassing for a man in my position.”

“So you'll pay me the pound?”

“Gladly.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a gold sovereign as a coach stopped behind me. “I'll take three of the flowers.”

We made the exchange. Then a man stopped next to Merville and said, “Going inside?”

The Duke of Blackford. I peeked up from beneath my hat brim and saw his eyebrows rise. My disguise was a failure. He'd recognized me.

Over my heartbeat banging like a drum, I heard Merville say, “Yes,” as he marched back into the building carrying the flowers.

Blackford gave me a shilling and a smile as he took one of the flowers out of my limp grasp and then walked inside.

All I could think was to disappear before he told Merville he'd been tricked by the Archivist Society. Clutching the coins in one hand, I hurried away, yanking off the shawl and balling it up in my other hand. I was certain Merville wasn't Drake's abductor. He was too happy to take any easy path to keep scandal from his door. And Dutton-Cox seemed to have no worry over what Drake might have known or seen concerning his daughter Victoria's death.

Therefore, Drake must not have been blackmailing Blackford about her death, either. So why was Drake blackmailing the duke and Dutton-Cox? I was becoming increasingly certain I'd have to travel to the wilds of Northumberland to learn the answer from the duke's sister, Margaret. I did not want to make that trip.

But first, I'd have to travel to Hounslow.

Chapter Twelve

I
T
wasn't until the next morning that I had time to follow up on the information Edith, or Anne as I'd learned she was, had told me. Truthfully, I didn't expect to learn anything, and Hounslow felt nearly as far away as Northumberland.

I walked to the Embankment station on the Metropolitan District Railway, preparing for a long, smoky trip out to Hounslow. I entered by the wide, concrete stairs to the platform and was immediately reminded why I seldom rode on the railways beneath London. The platform was dimly lit due to the thick air and I expected the train cars to be crowded and dingy with coal exhaust from the engines.

At least I didn't have long to wait before the train arrived. I was fortunate to find a seat, wedged between a woman with a holdall on her lap and a man trying to read a newspaper. The windows were closed. With luck, no one would open them until we were aboveground and in the countryside. The white smoke from the engine hid the tunnels in a fog that broke apart as we sped along the tracks, but we couldn't escape the stench of sulfur seeping in from the train's boiler.

Once aboveground, passengers opened the windows and fresh air replaced the stale. The Heston and Hounslow station wasn't far from London, but it still retained its soot-free village skies along with its village appearance. I walked along Hounslow's main street searching for a hansom cab. When I didn't have any luck by the time I reached the Hanworth Road, I turned in at a stable.

“Hello?” I called out, walking forward. The stable seemed to be empty except for two horses.

“Looking fer someone?”

I turned around and found my retreat blocked by a short man holding a pitchfork. His clothes were battered and dirty from his cap to his boots, except for a clean, light blue woolen scarf wrapped around his neck.

I backed up a step, keeping my gaze on the scarf rather than the menacing pitchfork. I hoped someone else was nearby. “I'm looking for a conveyance to take me to Nicholas Drake's house about a mile and a half to the south.”

“You want a conveyance?” He cackled with mirth. “What's wrong with your feet?”

“Nothing, but I don't wish to show up muddy at my brother's house.” Until that moment, I hadn't decided who I was going to be and how far from the truth I planned to travel.

“Drake's your brother?”

“Yes.”

“If it's Drake you want, you'd best go down the street to the police station.”

What was this odd little man up to? “Has Nicholas been locked up? What's the charge?”

“You might say that. And it's a charge we all have to face.” Chuckling to himself, the man shoved the pitchfork into the hay in an empty stall.

I hurried outside, afraid I'd feel the tines in my back at any moment. The police station was two blocks back up the road I had followed from the railway platform. I walked at a quick pace to the redbrick building and entered the lobby. The sergeant's counter was across a well-scrubbed pine floor from the door. A gray-haired uniformed constable leaned on the other side of the barrier.

“I've been told you're holding Nicholas Drake here,” I began.

“You've come to collect the body?” the man asked, straightening.

“What? Nicholas Drake is dead?” Was it an accident, or had his abductor succeeded?

I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because the constable called for one of his mates and came around the counter to me. “Are you all right, miss?”

“What happened to Nicholas Drake?” I demanded.

“Are you Mrs. Drake?” he asked.

“No. I'm his sister.”

“We didn't have any leads on his family, so it's a good thing you came by here today.”

I had failed. The Archivist Society had failed. But how did Drake die? I wanted to beat the information out of the constable, who was asking more questions than giving answers. “What happened to Nicholas?”

“If you'll come back here with me, we'll find you a cup of tea and talk about this,” he said in a soothing voice, but he watched me warily as if he expected me to become hysterical.

I nodded and followed him to an office down a long corridor. He had me sit on a hard wooden chair while another uniformed constable brought me a hot cup of tea. I took a sip and found there was too much sugar in the tea for it to be an unfortunate accident. They must have feared I'd wail and cry copious tears, but I'd already decided I'd learn more by being calm.

“Are you all right, miss?” the first officer asked.

“Quite. What happened to my brother?” They needed to tell me this instant what had happened or I'd scream, and not from grief.

“There was a fire in his house last night. Since his house sits on its own, well, no one could reach the building until it was burned through and ready to collapse.”

“You found his body inside?”

“When we could get into the rubble this morning, we found the body of a man. We believe it's your brother.”

“You believe?”

“The body was burned beyond recognition. The doctor says it's a man in his thirties and about Mr. Drake's height. Nicholas was in the Red Lion last night until closing time, when he headed home. The fire occurred not a half hour later.”

“He burned to death?” The timing was suspicious. Especially when blood was found in Drake's front hall the day he disappeared and he stood accused of blackmail.

The policeman patted my hand. “We talked to the regulars at the Red Lion and they said Nicholas had been staying here, well, at his house, for the past week. He'd lived there from time to time before. He was well-known around here and well liked. He was seen heading toward the Hanworth Road just after closing time. I'm sorry, miss.”

“His house was on the Hanworth Road. How did no one see the fire until it had consumed the house?”

“Hanworth Road is well traveled, even at that hour. There were a few people at a distance who saw the fire begin and heard the explosion. It only took a moment to turn into a raging fire, much quicker than they could reach the house. It was so fast, he wouldn't have suffered.”

An explosion? It sounded more and more like his abductors found him before I did. “His house wasn't old and decrepit?”

“No. It was a solid house, if old and small.” The constable kept his voice calm and his manner reassuring. How many times had he talked to a bereaved family? I wasn't bereaved, and I wanted answers.

“And no one was seen running from the house?”

Shaking his head, the constable patted my hand. Again. I'd have gladly ripped off his arm if it would get me the answers I was looking for in a more timely fashion. “No. There's no sign it was anything but an accident.”

“Who did he buy the house from?”

The constable drew his hand away and gave me a piercing look.

Oh, bother. I'd raised the policeman's suspicions. Trying to sound aware of his doubts and innocent of prying for information I should already have as Drake's sister, I said, “Nicholas and I hadn't kept in contact often in recent years. He was never a letter writer and I don't travel much. He told me something about it, but I don't remember now and I'd like to remember happier times.”

The policeman nodded, apparently believing my story. “Old Lady Caphart owned several of the farms in the area. Your brother's was the smallest, not big enough to farm properly. Shortly before she died, she sold it to your brother. None of us had ever seen him before he came down here with the deed, and then it was only days later that we heard she'd died.”

I nodded, belatedly remembering to pull out my handkerchief and take another sip of the rapidly cooling tea.

“How did your brother meet Lady Caphart?” the constable asked.

I wove together some details we'd learned about Drake and told him, “He'd done some work for her. He was a broker of artworks, and he'd found her some pieces she wanted. I had the impression the farm was in payment for something.” Had he been blackmailing Lady Caphart? That would have to be looked into.

“Are you from a big family, and will you want to take the body home for burial?”

“We're not a big family, and we've all moved away from the village we grew up in. I'm sure he'll be buried locally.”

“That's the shame of these modern times. People are starting to move out of their hometowns into the cities looking for work. No one knows their neighbors anymore.” The constable shook his head.

“Are you local? I imagine you can remember all the changes coming to this area.” Like Nicholas Drake. I hoped he'd start talking and I'd hear something that would help with my investigation.

“Aye. The railway into London just came out here five years ago. Or maybe ten. And with it came chain grocers buying up farms for a steady supply of produce in the city and we got new, bigger stores on the high street. Why, your brother had a friend come out from London yesterday on the railway.”

My pulse jumped. Was it Drake's abductor? “Who was it?”

“A friend from London. Met him in the Red Lion.” The constable flipped over the pages in his notebook. “Harry Conover. Left him just before the last train back to London. Just a few minutes before closing time.”

One of the two friends Drake's housekeeper and his wife had mentioned. Now the Archivist Society would have to find him and learn what they'd talked about so close to Drake's death. Then I realized with a sinking feeling that this would be someone else we'd have to find to give them the bad news.

“What is your name, miss?” The constable had his pencil ready.

“Georgia Drake.”

“And your address?”

Blast. I hadn't planned on that. “I'm nurse-companion to Mrs. Ellis of Winchcombe in Warwickshire. It's a village. No other address is needed.” I remembered passing through the village during one investigation and Mrs. Ellis, of London, from another.

He wrote all that down. I felt guilty lying to a police officer, but not bad enough to tell the truth.

“Where will you be staying while you make arrangements for your brother?”

“London. I have family there.” I stood up. “And they don't know. I need to tell them. You will excuse me until one of us gets back to you about—about Nicholas.”

He nodded.

“Thank you for your kindness.” I nodded to him and left the police station, heading directly to the railway station to make the miserable underground journey back to London.

* * *

I WALKED INTO
my bookshop to find Emma facing an insistent footman in Blackford livery. I paused, amazed because I'd never seen a male not immediately surrender to Emma's whims. She looked up at the man, her delicate chin jutting out, and said, “If you don't believe me, ask her yourself. She's standing right behind you.”

The footman spun around and said, “Miss Fenchurch.”

“Yes.” Wanting to show Emma held authority in my absence, whatever the subject, I faced her. “Any customers or anything else of note?”

“A few customers. Nothing of note until His Grace sent him with a message.” She growled the word “him.”

“About?” I asked her.

“What you are wearing to the masquerade ball,” the footman replied.

I'd just learned the abducted man we were searching for appeared to have been in hiding but recently had been killed, and the duke's footman was worrying me about something frivolous like costumes. I wanted to scream. Instead, I asked, “What is His Grace wearing?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Which means you don't know. Until you tell us, I won't tell you, either.”

“His Grace will not be happy with your response.”

“He'll survive.” Unlike Drake. “Now, unless there's something else?”

“No, miss.” The footman nodded to us and strode from the shop, stiff-backed and head held high.

“I think you hurt his pride,” Emma said.

“I don't have time for pride or nonsense now. Drake is dead, probably murdered in the fire that destroyed the house he owned outside Hounslow. A house and land he may have gained by blackmailing a Lady Caphart.” I had to spill out my findings before anyone else came into the shop to overhear, and I didn't want to hold off any longer from telling Emma.

Emma took a step back, eyes wide. “Oh, dear. Your trip to Hounslow netted more than we expected.”

“The Archivists will have to meet tonight.”

“And we'll have to plan our costumes for the Arlingtons' ball.” When I gave her a frown, she said, “We're now on the trail of a murderer. And he's bound to be one of those aristocrats at the masquerade.”

* * *

AFTER ARRANGING FOR
an Archivist Society meeting that night, I went to visit Lady Westover in hopes she could help with our costumes. When I followed the butler up a flight, I found a tall man with an angular face waiting outside the parlor. The butler paid the man no attention and announced me. Then I discovered she already had company in her green, flower-filled front parlor.