My Favorite Thief (30 page)

Harrison stared at him, unable to respond. It had never occurred to him that his thefts had hurt anyone other than the people from whom he had stolen. In his mind, they had been accomplices in the ruin of his father, and they deserved to be hurt. He did not believe he could be held accountable for Inspector Winters's death. But he could not deny that his actions had played a significant part in the destruction of the man's career and his life.

“For years I hated you,” Tony continued bitterly. “As I got older, hating you wasn't enough—especially since I didn't know what had become of you. And so I began to go through my father's notes on the Dark Shadow's crimes, devouring every little detail, desperately hoping I could solve the mystery of your identity. My father had written scores of pages theorizing the kind of man the Dark Shadow might be, listing the various possibilities of class, education, and intellect. The possibility he favored was that the culprit was either an aristocrat or a servant to an aristocrat—someone who knew his way around the homes and parties of the rich. It had to be a man of relative youth, who was physically capable of climbing up and down trees and scampering across rooftops. And it had to be someone who had a motive. That was where the possibilities became overwhelming. Virtually all servants believe that they are entitled to a better lot in life than the pompous pricks they serve. And there are countless aristocrats suffering financially, or second and third sons of peers who bristle at the unfairness of their allowances. All of these men might have thought stealing a few jewels was a perfectly reasonable way to augment their incomes.”

“So you decided you would have to draw the Dark Shadow out,” Harrison surmised.

“Exactly. I knew that if the Dark Shadow was still alive, there was a chance he might still be in reasonably good shape, given the feats he was physically capable of some sixteen years earlier. That was how the idea of trapping you in a new series of thefts was born. I learned everything I could about your methods, then set out to copy them. I created a new identity for myself: the Honorable Tony Poole, the pleasantly amusing son of some minor viscount, so I could infiltrate London society and study the men who comprised my list of possibilities. It was rather amazing, really, how quickly I was accepted. It demonstrates how vital the right accent, wardrobe, and story can be. You clean yourself up, affect an air, and casually mention to a few people that you're a viscount's son, then they introduce you to a few others, and by the third time you're introduced, it's accepted as fact.”

“You've played your role very well, Tony.”

Tony snorted with contempt. He was not about to accept compliments from Harrison. “I didn't consider you too strong a possibility at first, despite the fact that you were within the approximate age range and seemed fit enough. There were so many others who had wives dripping in jewelry, or who had a proclivity for wearing jewelry themselves, or who were still scrambling about financially. But I became intrigued when I learned about your father's suicide, and the nasty business about all the debts he left behind. That was when I decided to establish a friendship with you, to see if I could find out anything more. Unfortunately, you never wanted to talk about your father, and you were reluctant to let me spend time in the company of your mother. I had to rely on gossip to put the pieces together. My suspicions grew, but I didn't know for certain until you showed up at Lord Pembroke's house and I managed to tear your mask off.”

“And that's when you dropped one of my handkerchiefs. You were hoping that would lead the police to arrest me.”

“I didn't do that until I was absolutely sure you were the Dark Shadow,” Tony pointed out. “I didn't want the police chasing the wrong man.”

“But they weren't chasing the wrong man, Tony,” Harrison countered. “They were chasing you.”

“I was only trying to bring you to justice, Bryden. Which should have been done years ago.”

“Forgive me if I fail to see you as some kind of brave hero nobly fighting to restore the memory of his father. You have murdered two completely innocent men. You would have killed Inspector Turner as well, if I hadn't stopped you.”

“Actually, I only killed that idiot servant who came crashing into the room as I was going out Lady Pembroke's window. I didn't mean to kill him, but he gave me no choice. As far as I'm concerned, you're the one responsible for his death, not me. As for Turner, I was trying to make absolutely sure that you would be found guilty of murder. That's what you deserve.”

“What about Lord Haywood? You shot him dead on the steps of Lord Chadwick's house. Did he give you no choice, either?”

“I'm afraid I can't take credit for that one. I had been planning to break into Lord Chadwick's that night, but as I arrived, you were already stumbling out of the house with the lovely Miss Kent shielding you. You killed him.”

Harrison frowned. If Tony didn't shoot Lord Haywood that night, then who the hell did?

“I must admit, I had been looking forward to the spectacle of your trial and hanging,” Tony continued. “It would have been good to see you paraded before a judge and forced to fight for your life. I was most disappointed when that idiot Turner decided to release you. But I now realize this is a far more fitting way to bring the mystery of the Dark Shadow to an end.”

“Don't you think people are going to wonder who murdered me? Inspector Turner is certain to have a few questions regarding my sudden demise.”

“But you're not going to be murdered, Harry. You're going to shoot yourself, just the way your father did.”

“And why would I do that? If I am, as you say, the Dark Shadow, and I've just been released from prison because there was insufficient evidence against me, what could possibly make me want to kill myself? Somehow I don't think Inspector Turner will believe that I was suddenly overcome with remorse.”

“You're going to kill yourself for the same reason your father ended his life, Harry. Because your mind is going and you can't bear to suffer the indignities of madness, at which point you won't be capable of killing yourself.”

Harrison was very careful to keep his expression utterly calm. He had told no one about his fear that his mind was eroding. “But my mind isn't going, Tony,” he countered.

“Perhaps not.” Tony shrugged. “But every servant in your household is well aware that you suffer the same debilitating headaches that plagued your father. One need only look at your receipts for laudanum to see how regularly you dose yourself to alleviate the pain. When the police interview me, I will tell them how much you suffered, and attest to your growing forgetfulness. I will cite all the appointments we made where you never appeared, describe your inability to find everyday objects, and how you fought to recall the names of people familiar to you. Thanks to me, your mental deterioration is also well known amongst the members of your club, who have been most distressed to hear of it. Given the mental illness suffered by both your parents, however, everyone understands it was only a matter of time before you fell victim to the same disorder. It seems that very often these things are passed on from one generation to the next.”

Harrison regarded him incredulously. A painful throbbing began to beat at the front of his skull, warning that a headache was looming.
Easy,
he told himself, fighting it. He took a slow, deep breath, trying to release the tightly wound knot of rage and disbelief that was pushing him toward the precipice of helpless pain.

“Are you saying that all those times you claimed we had arranged to meet, or talked about people I supposedly knew, but couldn't recall—that they were lies?”

“Some things you actually did forget, and others I made up,” Tony replied easily. “I knew you feared turning into your father more than anything. As my suspicions of you grew I played upon that fear, realizing that at some point it might prove useful to me.”

Harrison didn't know whether to be enraged or relieved. The possibility that his mind was not deteriorating to the extent he had thought was almost too incredible to be believed. Could it be that he was not doomed to end up like his father after all?

Of course if Tony managed to put a bullet through his head, his mental health would scarcely matter.

“A bit bittersweet, to learn that you aren't nearly as senile as you thought just before your life comes to an end,” Tony reflected. “At least you won't have to think about it for too long. Now if you don't mind, I'd like you to move over to that chair and sit down,” he ordered, gesturing with his pistol. “I believe we'll set this up so it seems you were sitting contemplating putting a bullet in your head for a while before you actually found the courage to do it.”

Harrison remained where he was. “No.”

Tony sighed. “Really, Harry, this isn't the time to start imagining some scene where you bravely wrestle your way free. I'm not about to roll around with you on the floor the way we did at Lord Pembroke's. We both know that if you had a weapon you would have shown it to me by now, so really you only have two choices: Get shot now while you are standing, or get shot in the chair where you can be sitting comfortably. If I were you, I would choose sitting in the chair. At least then you won't have far to fall. Also, it would be a shame to spill blood all over this handsome carpet. It would make such an awful mess for poor old Telford to clean up.”

“I don't think I'll get shot at all, Tony. Not tonight.”

Tony regarded him with amusement. “I apologize, Harry, if you have a better time in mind. Unfortunately, this is the only night I can spare for killing you.”

“You might think differently if you turn around.”

“Don't insult me, Harry. I'm not so stupid that you can distract me with an idiotic trick. Now move over to the chair before I—”

“Drop your weapon,” commanded a sober voice behind him. “Now.”

Harrison watched with grim satisfaction as Tony's eyes widened with surprise.

“Well, well,” Tony murmured, his gaze never leaving Harrison. “It seems this moment has to be shared, after all.” He raised his gun.

Harrison hurled himself against Tony and grabbed his arm, knocking him to the floor as the pistol exploded. A deafening blast tore through the room. The throbbing in Harrison's head exploded into a thousand fiery pieces, making him feel sick. Still gripping the gun, he smashed Tony's hand hard against the floor, forcing him to release it.

“Don't move!” snarled Lewis, who had risen from the steamer trunk in which he had been hiding and now had his pistol aimed at Tony's temple. “Or I'll blow your bloody head off.”

“And if for some reason he misses,” Simon added, emerging from the heavily carved wardrobe at the other end of the chamber, “I promise you I won't.”

“Neither will I,” said Jamie, stepping out from behind the drapes.

“By the toes of Saint Andrew, just what kind of a fool's lock have ye got here?” demanded Oliver, heaving the bedroom door open with a bang. “Ye'd think in a great house like this, they'd put in somethin' a wee bit stronger,” he muttered, offended by how little resistance the mechanism had given him. “Are ye nae afraid of thieves breakin' in, lad?”

Wincing against the pain in his head, Harrison pulled himself to his feet.

“You're under arrest.” Lewis spoke the words slowly, savoring the pleasure of finally uttering them to the right man. “And if you do anything to try to escape, or even anything that just manages to annoy me, I promise you I won't hesitate to shoot you. I may just shoot you anyway, just to alleviate some of the discomfort you've caused me with that bullet you put in my leg. Take him to Newgate,” he commanded to the half dozen young police constables who had crowded into the room. “But first put him in shackles, and for God's sake make sure someone is watching him every minute.”

“You have to arrest him, too,” protested Tony as two policemen hauled him to his feet. “He's the Dark Shadow—the one who stole all those jewels years ago!”

“That's enough of yer blather,” scolded Oliver impatiently. “As if anyone would listen to the likes of a spineless cur like you!”

“It's true!” Tony insisted, fighting to keep from being led out the door. “Bryden broke into Lord Chadwick's home—just ask her,” he shouted furiously as Charlotte limped into the room. “She was with him that night—she knows!”

“If you're suggesting anything even remotely offensive about my sister, I'd suggest you keep your mouth shut.” Simon's tone was deceptively mild.

“That's good advice,” Jamie added, wrapping a protective arm around Charlotte.

Harrison stared at her, ignoring Tony and his accusations. He had not seen her since she had visited him at Newgate. No one had told him that she was here, anxiously waiting to see what would happen as he used himself as bait to trap the Dark Shadow. He could see that despite the warmth of the night she was shivering.

“Bryden is the Dark Shadow—you heard him admit it!” Tony raged to Lewis, his face nearly crimson with frustration and fury. “You have to arrest him as well!”

Constable Wilkins regarded Lewis uncertainly. “Sir?”

“Wilkins, take this piece of scum out of here,” Lewis commanded brusquely. He did not spare a glance to Harrison as he finished, “I believe Lord Bryden has endured quite enough of his ranting and foul behavior for one night.”

“Yes, sir. All right then, let's go!” Constable Wilkins commanded, ushering Tony and the other police officers out of Harrison's bedchamber.

“You have to arrest him, too!” Tony insisted as he was being dragged down the corridor. “You can't let him get away!”

“ 'Tis a shame,” mused Oliver, shaking his head. “Sometimes anger's more hurtful than the wrong that's caused it.” He cast a meaningful glance at Harrison.