Leslie Lafoy (37 page)

“You failed,” he announced regally, one brow cocked at a decidedly superior angle, “to predict that we would find the murderer dead, as well.”

“Emil’s been killed?” she asked, stunned and disbelieving.

“My men tell me that he was a contract man from Southwark whose apparent specialties were knee breaking and strategic stabbings—of the permanently hobbling variety,” Larson supplied, his manner undaunted by her challenge. “Adam Gray was his name. And he was a suicide, actually. A single shot to the left temple. Apparently, given the proximity of his body to that of the younger Miss de Granvieux, he was overcome by his conscience immediately after having killed her. We found both the knife and the revolver with the bodies.”

She frowned and knitted her brows, remembering. Did the man really think no deeper than that? Good God Almighty, how had he risen to the rank of inspector?

“What is it, Belle?” Carden asked.

“I saw Rose’s body, how her throat had been slit,” she answered, boldly meeting the policeman’s gaze. “Whoever killed her was right-handed. Aside from the fact that mercenary killers don’t have consciences to be troubled, much less overwhelmed, why would Adam Gray kill Emma, drop his knife, take out a gun, and then shoot himself with his left hand? For the challenge of it? No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “Once he’d served his full range of purposes, Emil killed him. He’s tying up the loose ends. Eliminating anyone who can testify to his involvement in the murders.”

“You have to admit that he really is very good,” Carden offered, the notes of amusement in his voice earning him a quick glare from Larson. “In a completely evil and twisted sort of way.”

“On the off chance,” the older man said testily, “that you might be correct regarding the involvement of this Emil Caribe person, I have ordered a contingent of my men to take up positions around St. Paul’s. Discreetly, of course.”

“You might as well pull them back, Inspector,” Belle said, taking up the wooden box containing the dynamite. “Emil has no intention whatsoever of conducting an aboveboard, public exchange. Detailing one was simply his attempt to divert attention and effort elsewhere. When we find Barrett, Emil Caribe will be standing in the doorway.”

“And how do you know that?” Larson demanded.

Belle set the box down on a nearby table, shrugged, and returned for the bag of supplies, saying, “I know Emil. I know what he wants and how he thinks.”

She was aware that all five men were watching her with acute interest, three of them knowing what she was about, the other two having no idea at all. She wondered how long it would take Larson to inquire. To his credit, he resisted for far longer than she expected. She’d already wired together two ignition devices, wired each in turn to each of the four corners of the folded grant transfer, laid it all aside, and was removing the sticks of dynamite from the box when he finally broke down.

“Might I ask what you’re doing?”

She thought it should have been obvious to even the most casual, inexperienced observer, and it crossed her mind to tell him that she was baking a cake, but decided that he wasn’t the sort to let sarcasm roll off his back. “I’m building an explosive device.”

“A what!”

“A bomb,” she clarified, using her knife to shorten the fuses to the barest possible length. “With which I intend to bring Emil to heel and secure Barrett’s release.”

The sergeant slowly backed away a good six feet. Larson remained where he was, blinking furiously and seemingly unable to get the words spat off the end of his tongue. While he worked at it, Belle dug in her valise for her dress, sliced off a strip of fabric and divided it into two segments. Placing one over each of the ignition bundles, she settled the dynamite into position and began the careful task of final wiring.

“It is illegal to make,” Larson finally sputtered, “possess, or employ explosives without permission from the proper civil and military authorities.”

“I’m sure it is,” she allowed, nodding ever so slightly, “but arresting me for it at this particular moment might be something of a dangerous proposition. If, however, you feel the compunction to tempt fate in the name of public safety, I suppose you could give it a try.”

He didn’t move. Her work completed, Belle eased back, dropped the snips into her pocket, and considered her creation. Heaven only knew if it would work as she’d designed it to. She’d built in all the margins for safety the materials allowed. It could be transported without undue concern. And she certainly wouldn’t arm it unless she absolutely had no other choice. Not that Emil had to know any of that.

The door of the Hen and Chick swung wide and all of them turned as one to see O’Brien scramble breathlessly across the threshold. And come to dead stop, his gaze riveted on the sergeant.

“Patrick,” the man said icily.

“Joseph.”

Belle looked back and forth between them, suddenly realizing why the constable had seemed so familiar. If they weren’t brothers, they were most definitely first cousins.

“Have you found Barrett?” Carden asked, breaking the strained silence and setting Belle into motion.

“Got it narrowed to a single building,” O’Brien supplied as she picked up the length of rope and the bomb. “Have the boys watchin’ front an’ back. Figured the more shoulders we have to throw against doors, the better.”

A discussion of sorts ensued, but Belle paid it only vague attention. Centering the device on her midsection, she laid the rope across it and then held it in place with one hand as she passed the binding around her body and brought it back to the front. She tied an overhand knot and then tucked the ends of the rope into the pocket of her trousers.

“I’m ready,” she announced, taking her coat from the chair.

Patrick O’Brien snorted and snipped over his shoulder, “Ain’t no job for a—”

His eyes went as wide as saucers. Belle nodded. “One doesn’t argue with a person who has dynamite tied to their body.”

“Jesus, Belle!” Aiden exclaimed, scrubbing his hand through his copper-colored hair.

Carden visibly forced himself to swallow before he ventured, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Absolutely,” she assured them, sliding her arms into the sleeves. “The strips of fabric prevent an accidental ignition. I have to remove them before the spark can reach the fuse.”

“Wouldn’t carrying it work just as well?” Aiden asked, looking, she thought, as though he might retch at any moment. “Must it be strapped to you? Barrett will kill us if something happens to you.”

Barrett would probably want to kill her himself once he found out. His wrath was a price she was perfectly willing to pay, though. A thousand times over. “In terms of damage, yes,” she admitted, “it would work just as well—probably better—to have it away from the body. Unfortunately, I don’t think Emil would let me get close enough for it to be a true threat if he were to see me carting it up to him. Concealed,” she added, drawing her coat over it all, “is another matter entirely.”

“You’re insane,” Larson said on a whisper that almost seemed awed.

“Sometimes,” she assured him as she moved past, her heart pounding furiously and her palms damp. “But at the moment, just enough to be sufficiently, effectively dangerous. Lead us on, Mr. O’Brien. Let’s get this done.”

*   *   *

She wouldn’t have held it against any of them if they’d insisted she ride in a separate, rented hack. Or, at the very least, either on the boot or up in the box with Carden’s poor unsuspecting driver. But they hadn’t. O’Brien had claimed the driver’s box saying that he had to point the way. Carden had handed her up into his carriage and he and John Aiden had settled on the opposite seat. Their attempts at reassuring conversation had been diligent if nothing else and their expressions had frozen only slightly whenever the wheels had rolled through a hole in the roadway. And somehow they’d managed to keep from sighing in utter relief when the carriage had rolled to a stop and O’Brien yanked open the door.

Belle stood on the deteriorating pavers of the roadway, looking at the steps of a five-story ramshackle building. At one time it had probably been a fairly nice place to live. But that had been before the plaster had begun to fall off the exterior in huge chunks, the stone stairs from the street had tilted and pulled away, the majority of the window glass had been shattered, and the roof had half rotted.

“He’s likely to be in the lower part of it,” Aiden observed quietly from her right side as Larson’s coach rolled to a stop behind them. “He’s too big to haul up stairs any distance.”

“I’ll bet he’s in the cellar,” Carden added from her left. “It’d be much more difficult to escape. The windows are high and small. Do you think Caribe is expecting us, Belle? Or will we have the element of surprise on our side?”

“I honestly can’t say,” she admitted. “My mind has been down the paths of so many possibilities in the last eight hours that I can’t think straight anymore. This morning I thought he might actually try to catch me by surprise.”

“You’ve been moving about the city all day and hard to find,” Aiden pointed out, checking the load of a pistol and then tucking it in the pocket of his coat. “And he’s been a bit busy with other tasks.”

“Then I’ll hazard a guess that he’s going to be thinking fast in just a few moments. Not that I much care one way or the other,” she confessed. “All I want is to find Barrett and go home.”

“Then let’s see it done, shall we?” Carden proposed.

They’d barely taken a step forward when Larson called from behind them, “Now see here, gentlemen, Mrs. Dandaneau. I am in charge of this inves—”

“No,” Belle interrupted, turning back to face him. “Inspector, I appreciate your devotion to duty, but your murder investigation isn’t our primary concern. Getting Barrett out of there as quickly and as neatly as possible is. Once we’ve accomplished that, you may do whatever you like regarding Emil Caribe and without our interference or comment.”

His gaze flickered past her to light first on Carden and then Aiden. Their expressions must have been unbrookable because the constable glowered and growled, “I will be exceedingly unhappy if he’s allowed to escape.”

She didn’t care one whit what happened to Emil in the long run. As long as he gave her Barrett and let them be, he could go anywhere, do anything he wanted. “We’ll do what we can,” Belle promised vaguely, turning back and falling in between Barrett’s friends, grateful to have them at her side.

They stopped just inside the front door, Belle staring up the stairs, amazed by the apparent fact that there were people still living in the tumbledown building. She could hear a woman singing, several babies were crying, and somewhere—on one of the upper floors—a man and woman were bellowing at each other over his lack of a job. She couldn’t arm the device, she realized, her heart tripping. No matter how she might need to. Innocents could be injured in the blast.

“The cellar stairs are likely to be at the other end of the hall,” Aiden said quietly.

She nodded and started down the narrow corridor, doorless, empty apartments on her right, the stairwall on her left, Barrett’s friends closely flanking her back. If Emil was even half expecting them, her mind chattered, he could step out from any one of the rooms or from the shadows at the end of the stairwell.

They were halfway along the hall when his choice was revealed.

“That’s far enough,” he decreed, sauntering out from the last room, his arm extended, the butt of a Colt revolver clutched in his hand and the muzzle aimed at the center of her chest.

Her heart hammering, Belle did as he instructed. So did Carden and Aiden. “Hello, Emil,” she said breezily. “Fancy finding you here.”

“Isabella,” he replied with the barest dip of his chin. His gaze raked her from head to toe and back again. “Your mother would be appalled.”

“Wouldn’t she? Although I doubt that she’d be terribly surprised.”

“I distinctly remember instructing you to come alone.”

He was surprised and had at least a dozen questions he didn’t dare ask; not while trying to pretend that he wasn’t ruffled by her having upended his plan. “I was to come alone to the south portico of St. Paul’s Cathedral,” she countered coolly. “This isn’t St. Paul’s.”

“Tell them to go.”

She shook her head. “They’re honorable men. If we can strike a bargain, they’ll accept it and let you pass unhindered and unharmed. Shall we begin the dance now and get it done?”

“It will have to be a short one,” he countered, the gun unwavering. “I have a ship to catch.”

Not for a while, though, she reasoned. They were a good two hours ahead of the schedule he’d set that morning. “Of course,” she agreed serenely. “One doesn’t tarry when there’s a fortune to be claimed. Or four murder charges to be evaded.”

One dark brow shot up and his dark eyes glittered. “Did you bring the transfer, Isabella?”

She shrugged and countered, “Where’s Barrett?”

“I’ll tell you when I have the document.”

“Oh, please, Emil,” she scoffed. “Do you honestly think I’m that stupid?”

The corners of his mouth curled upward and he waved the muzzle of the gun slightly to draw her attention to it. “I have the gun, my dear. I have the power to set the terms. The document, please. Now.”

Belle gave him the heavy sigh he expected and while Carden and Aiden drew long slow breaths, she opened the front of her coat. Emil Caribe actually rocked slightly back on his heels as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

“I do believe that two sticks of dynamite trump a Colt repeater, Emil. Especially when they’re rigged to the all-important piece of paper.” She took a step forward, adding, “Let me explain the mechanism for you. I consider it one of my better pieces of work.”

He checked a backward step and waved the muzzle again. “You’re a crazy bitch. You always have been.”

And she’d let him go on thinking just that. “As you can see—” She paused and made a production of looking around her. “Well, perhaps you can’t, the light is rather dim in here. I suppose you’ll have to take my word on it. The fuses are extremely short, Emil. The merest fraction of an inch. The time between spark and detonation would be shorter than a blink.