The Vanishing Thief (18 page)

* * *

THE NEXT DAY,
I strolled away from the Heston and Hounslow railway station with Anne Drake. While Fogarty walked to the chapel in Hounslow Cemetery for Drake's funeral, I found a tea shop where Anne—I was starting to think of her that way, and not as Edith Carter—and I could wait. She was determined to visit the grave as soon as the service was over and the dirt thrown in. Feeling guilty that I'd waited a day before telling her Nicholas Drake was dead, and had then slipped off, leaving Frances Atterby to deal with her grief, I went along as support.

We stepped out of the gusty breeze and sat at a table, where I ordered a pot of tea and scones. “Who was the man you were talking to on the ride out here?” Anne asked.

“A colleague of mine. He's acting as Nicholas's brother and paid for the funeral.”

“Oh.” I realized this was the first time Anne Drake had thought of the cost. She remained silent until after the tea had been served and then said, “It's good of you to do this. Nicholas had no family, and I can't afford a funeral. I have no idea what I'll do. . . .”

Her voice trailed off and she took a sip of tea. “Mrs. Atterby was very kind to me yesterday, but she told me she wouldn't be able to come with me today. Thank her for me, please, and thank you for being here today.”

I waited while she gave one sniff, took another sip of tea, and raised her chin. Purple bruises formed half circles under her red-rimmed eyes. She must have cried all night, making me feel even guiltier for not bringing Drake back safely. “I wonder if Harry and Tom will attend.”

“We learned Harry Conover saw Nicholas Drake shortly before he died. We've not been able to find Conover, and Tom Whitaker hasn't seen him, but we'll continue looking.”

“Harry came out here?” Anne asked me. “Why?”

“We won't know until we find him. Do you have any idea?” When she shook her head, I added, “It might help find whoever did this to your husband.”

“I don't know,” she burst out and then looked around the half-filled room at the eyes staring back at us. Lowering her voice, she repeated, “I don't know.” She nudged her mourning veil forward so that it shielded her face from prying eyes on either side.

“Did you ever hear their conversations?”

She shook her head again. “Anytime either Tom or Harry came by, Nicholas took them out to a pub or he sent me back to my house. He didn't want me to hear. I suspect because they were up to something illegal, and Nicholas knew how I wanted to change our lives. To stay on the right side of the law.”

When I didn't reply, she said, “You think that, too.”

I didn't want to admit I thought her much-mourned husband was a thief and a blackmailer until the day he died. “What are you going to do now?”

“My house is rented, but Nicholas owned his. I'll move in there for a while until I decide what to do. For years, my life has revolved around Nicholas. I have no idea what to do now that he's gone.”

With that, she grabbed up her handkerchief to stifle her sobs. After a few hiccups and a sip of tea, she said, “I wish I could have seen him.”

“He was in a fire. It's better you didn't.”

“I'll never be sure he's gone. I think I'd feel it inside if he were—oh, God.” She sniffed. “And not being able to attend the funeral since I'm a woman makes it even harder to believe he's—. Instead, I keep expecting him to walk in and say it's all been a mistake.”

I patted her hand. “It's no mistake.”

In a whisper, Anne said, “I hope he didn't suffer.”

Something she had said nudged at me. “When did your husband buy his London house?”

“I don't know. He owned it when I arrived. He was very proud of having obtained a house, since he came from nothing.”

We finished our tea in silence, neither of us having any interest in the scones. When I guessed we had waited long enough for the service and burial to end, I paid the bill and we bundled up to face the chilly walk to the cemetery.

Fogarty was waiting outside the cemetery chapel for us, rubbing his gloved hands together. The wind howled around the building as if in mourning. “Would you like me to lead the way?” he asked.

Anne Drake nodded, and I fell into step with her behind Fogarty.

“It'd be a pretty day if the wind would just stop,” he muttered after a vicious push by a hard gust of air.

Fortunately, we had only a short walk to the raw grave piled over with dirt. Fogarty stepped aside and let us go forward. Anne stared down at the soil, her soggy handkerchief pressed to her mouth.

I let my mind and gaze wander around the graveyard, giving her some privacy for her grief. I noticed movement behind a huge marble tombstone with an angel perched on top about thirty yards away. Keeping my head still, I watched the spot out of the corner of my eye. Finally, a man stepped out from behind the monument. Scruffy, needing a haircut and shave, and wearing clothes that hung limp on his body, but still recognizable from his photograph.

Nicholas Drake.

Chapter Fifteen

I
GLANCED
back at Fogarty and made a small gesture toward the monument. He looked in the direction I indicated, and I saw his eyes narrow. Then, as Drake moved to his right, Fogarty took a step backward and to his left. His quarry didn't appear aware of his movements, giving Fogarty the opportunity to cut the thief off before he escaped the cemetery.

Fogarty had only taken a half dozen steps when Drake glanced our way and then dodged behind tombstones, disappearing from sight. The ex–police sergeant took off after him, moving quickly around the large ornamental monuments despite his limp. Unfortunately, Drake had a head start.

I watched Anne, who appeared unaware of all the movement around her. How would she react when she discovered Drake was still alive? And who was the poor fellow who had been destined to lie under Drake's name for eternity?

Anne reached down and picked up a clod of dirt and threw it on the hump of loose soil covering Drake's coffin. Brushing her gloves together, she said, “We might as well walk back to the station. I feel like everything is finished.”

Then she sniffed and leaned her body against the wind to march away from the gravesite, her widow's veil streaming out behind her. I dodged the black fabric as we walked toward the chapel and, beyond the small brick and columned structure, the main road. I kept my head bent down, fighting for every breath as I moved forward into the blustery gusts, but I tried to search the cemetery with my eyes for Fogarty or Drake. Neither man appeared.

When we neared the chapel, I heard Anne gasp. Then she said, “Go ahead to the station. I want to stop in the chapel for a moment to say a last prayer.” Rather than sorrow, she seemed to be hiding some great joy. Her eyes sparkled and the corners of her mouth twitched upward.

I caught a glimpse of a shadow near one of the pillars and guessed immediately who was waiting there. “Won't you introduce me to your husband?”

Anne Drake's gaze darted from the chapel to me before she demanded, “You know my husband's alive?”

“Yes. I saw him at the gravesite. Who's in the grave?”

Her eyes widened. “I don't know.”

“Let's ask your husband.” I took her arm and strode toward the chapel porch. I expected Nicholas Drake, after hiding so long and so well, to disappear before we arrived, but he waited in the shadows until we stood on the porch.

Anne flew to him, her arms outstretched. He took her into an embrace when she reached him and shushed her cries of delight. Then he stepped forward, an arm around Anne, and demanded, “Who are you?”

He looked good for a corpse. Actually, he looked good, period. Even better than his photograph. He had a nice height and a pleasant face, which currently looked delighted to see his wife.

She gazed back at him with devotion. “I hired the Archivist Society to find you. To save you from your abductors. You must tell her everything so they can stop these attacks. Oh, Nicholas, I want you safe.”

He gave her a squeeze and turned to me.

“I'm Georgia Fenchurch, a member of the Archivist Society. How many people are you blackmailing?”

Anne Drake looked at me with fury, but he grinned roguishly and said, “Please, Miss Fenchurch. You make it sound like I'm some sort of evil creature. I'm not, I assure you. I'm the one who should be the victim in that grave.”

I couldn't decide if it was the smile, knowing and willing to please, the voice, deep and smooth as a caress, or his eyes, twinkling with sexual promise, that was the most devastating. I could see why others found him so charming. I glanced around the cemetery. “Who died in your house?”

“Ah, that would be Harry. He found me in the Red Lion and said he needed to lie low for a few days. Something about some confidence trick that went bad. I sent him on to the house and finished up at the pub. While I was walking home, I suddenly heard a boom and then the sky lit up over my house. Someone must have blown up my house. Harry didn't stand a chance.”

“Couldn't it have been an accident?”

“You don't get an explosion like that from a fireplace or an oil lamp. The house was out in the countryside where we lack modern conveniences like gas lighting.”

I shivered, both from the chilly air and from the knowledge that now we were dealing with a murder much like my parents'. “And the blood on your entry hall floor?”

“It's from one of the three goons sent to drag me off. When they forced their way in and grabbed me, I stabbed one man in the gut. I know my way around the house in the dark, so I was able to run to the basement and hide. They searched the house but didn't find me. In too big a hurry to get their friend to a doctor, I'd guess.”

“Who's doing this?”

“I don't know.” He looked genuinely baffled in a seductive way.

“I've been so worried,” Anne broke in. Her widow's veil whipped to the side of her head in a gust of wind.

He focused his charm on her. “I know, love. I would have told you, but I was afraid I'd lead them to your door. I can't let anything happen to you.”

I didn't believe him. About his not knowing who was after him, about his being worried for Anne's well-being, about his innocence. “You have a pretty long list of people who would be coming after you, Mr. Drake. Blackmail victims all, I'd guess. Who are they? And where are their letters?”

“Aristocrats all. Their letters are perfectly safe, and most of them have finished paying me.” He smirked. He'd stolen from these people and then threatened them with what he had taken, and he had the nerve to laugh about what he'd done.

I stepped close to him, glaring into his face as I thought of his victims' fear of exposure. “I don't believe you'd let the wealthy loose from your grip so easily.”

“It's not a matter of letting them out from under my control; it's a matter of circumstances changing so their letters no longer have value. Aristocrats have a talent for making new alliances to keep themselves above common gossip. That's the reason they've stayed in power for a thousand years.”

I watched his face, searching for clues. He was bitter about something, but did it have anything to do with his attacker? “If the letters have no value, why don't you return them?”

“Because I don't know what will again become valuable.” He smiled, as if we spoke of shares of a company and not the private correspondence of ladies and gentlemen.

I was so disgusted I could taste ashes. “But you still have them? They weren't destroyed in the fire?”

He laughed easily, a warm, seductive sound. Anne, in her now-inappropriate black crepe, leaned on him, their arms around each other. “No. I wouldn't keep anything so valuable anywhere but in the safest of places.”

Blast. I had hoped. “Where do you plan to hide now?”

“At home. Whoever my attacker is, he's made it clear I can't hide from him.” His slight scowl said he wondered how he'd been followed.

I wanted to know the same thing. “How many people knew about your house out here?”

“Just Tom and Harry. I told the locals I worked somewhere up north and came down occasionally to look after things here.”

“So Harry was followed when he came down here that night.”

He winced at my words.

It didn't make them any less true. “Did you see any strangers in the Red Lion that night? Anyone you recognized from London? Anyone who didn't fit in?”

“No.” He looked out into the distance. “It was just me and Harry and some locals I recognize by sight. It wasn't a busy night.”

“What time did Harry Conover arrive?”

“Late. Ten, more or less.”

Someone had to have followed Harry Conover from the station. Fogarty or Jacob would be good at finding out if another stranger was seen getting off the same District Railway train. Could it be as easy as that to find the murderer? “I suggest we head back into London before anyone else catches up with you.”

We walked back to the train station, where Fogarty was waiting for us. The Drakes walked out onto the platform while Fogarty pulled me aside. “So he's turned into Lazarus. What next? Will the whole cemetery rise up?”

“There were no gas lines in the house. Harry Conover was murdered. And Drake is planning to go home where he'll be an easy target. There are a couple of things we need to see to.” I gave him a big smile before rattling off some possibilities for the Archivist Society to consider.

* * *

WHEN I RETURNED
to the bookshop, Emma waved a note at me before turning her attention back to a middle-aged woman searching through the novels. I hung up my cloak and hat and went out to face a man who looked like a bulldog browsing through our astronomy books.

A half hour passed before we were both free to talk. Emma held out the note and said, “Lady Westover has invited me to attend a lecture with her tomorrow afternoon.”

She was bouncing on her toes. “I'm to be a barrister's daughter and will be introduced to Daisy Hancock. Lady Westover says she's the only possible blackmail victim left besides the Duke of Blackford's sister. No one else need fear a revelation by Drake.”

So it wasn't the entire Archivist Society, but only me, who was in trouble with Lady Westover. Working up a smile for Emma, I said, “That's great. We need to know as much about Miss Daisy as you can discover.”

I must have failed, because Emma said, “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I'm just tired.” I gave her a weak smile. “Nicholas Drake is alive. I met him today at the cemetery.”

Her eyes widened as she reached out and grabbed my arm. “Good heavens. He's alive? Then who died in the fire?”

“Harry Conover, a friend of his who came to visit him that night. I think he was followed by whoever burned down the house and Conover was killed by mistake.”

“You think whoever killed Conover didn't know what Drake looks like?”

“Hounslow isn't London. It's dark at night on their lanes. Possibly the killer thought whoever walked into the house had to be Drake and attacked.”

The bell over the shop door rang. Emma gave me a sympathetic look, patted my arm, and walked over to our customer.

I stood between two bookshelves, suddenly drawn to Lady Westover's words that Emma had repeated. The Mervilles seemed to be willing to pay off Drake and anyone else aware of their secret, but they may have fooled me. The husband of the younger Dutton-Cox girl, Elizabeth, might be angry at Drake for blackmailing his wife or jealous if he knew Drake was the recipient of her daring letters. I couldn't see how Waxpool or the Naylards would be involved in the attacks on Drake, since Drake couldn't cause them any harm, but it might only be a failure on my part to dig deep enough.

Any of the threatened peers might be Drake's attacker. Even the Duke of Blackford. As much as I didn't want to discover that the fascinating duke, with his air of regal menace, was capable of murder, I needed to keep investigating.

* * *

I SPENT THE
next afternoon alone in the shop except for a few customers who seemed particularly grumpy. It might have been the drizzling weather. It might have been my frustration with the case. And it might have been the prospect of traveling two days to reach the far end of Britain where the Duke of Blackford's sister was hiding from society. If Emma didn't find a good reason why Daisy, or Lord Hancock, was after Drake, and nothing else turned up, I would have to make that trip.

I jumped, my melancholy forgotten, as the bell jangled over the door and the Duke of Blackford strode in. After Nicholas Drake, with his suave good looks and seductive voice, the duke was like a drink of good brandy. Blood heating, sharp tasting, and molded by the very best. I bobbed a quick curtsy behind the counter. “What can I do for Your Grace?”

“First, I came to see your shop. Merville says you're well equipped to handle rare books. You use electric lights, I see.”

“Yes. They became available on this street two years ago. It takes a little effort getting used to the brightness, but it's much easier on the books than burning those smoky gaslights.”

“I'm thinking of adding them at Blackford House, at least on the ground floor.” He studied our light fixtures for a moment. “And where are your antiquarian volumes?”

“Behind the counter, Your Grace.” I led the way. To my surprise, he stayed on the customer side of the counter.

“Do you have any Shakespeare?”

I'd seen the antique globe in his library the day I stormed into his home. I didn't expect to get any of his business. I had nothing so grand. “I have a quarto-sized
Othello
from the early eighteenth century in pristine condition.” I slipped on my cotton gloves and opened the brass wire cover. When I turned back to Blackford, he had already put on cotton gloves.

When I handed him the volume, he held it with reverence, carefully opening the book and examining the pages and cover. “There's no gilt to protect the pages from dust.”