The Black Widow (13 page)

“There, there, my dear child.”

Now he was patting her hand, trying to comfort
her!
She had to bite her lip to hold back the hysterical laughter.

“It was silly of me to think you could ever do such a thing.”

By digging her fingernails into her palms, she was able to control her emotions enough to say calmly, “Indeed it was. I would not even know where to find a ... a murderer for hire, were I to want to employ such a person, which I assure you I do not.”

The relief on his face made her angry. Who did he think he was, coming to her with his ridiculous accusations? And what kind of a person did he think she was? Even making allowances for his apparent senility did little to lessen the hurt.

“I do apologize for my suspicions, my child, which I see were completely unfounded.” He continued to beg her pardon, but she scarcely heard what he was saying. When she was a child, he had held her on his knee and allowed her to play with his watch, and yet he had thought her capable of murder?

It was all of a piece—first Peter had betrayed her; then her father, and now even Wimbwell, who had always liked her the best, had turned against her.

It required an immense effort to remain civil until she finally managed to usher the old man out of the house. But it did not take long after that for her to see the possibilities for humor in the whole episode. As she had always done, she hid her pain behind a sharp tongue and a sarcastic wit.

* * * *

“Me? Why should I dance with her?” Uncle Humphrey looked at Demetrius in dismay.

“Because I am determined to disprove this supposed curse once and for all,” Demetrius replied. “Therefore I have been enlisting some of my friends—Thomas Hennessey, Collier, and a few others I am sure I can trust to hold their tongues—to dance with Miss Prestwich.”

“But... but... but ...” Humphrey looked around as if wishing he could flee from the spot, but Demetrius had him cornered between a pair of potted palms, and there was no way for him to escape except by climbing over one or the other of them.

“And do not try to convince me that you are still afraid some supernatural power will strike you down,” Demetrius said, keeping his voice low so that none of the other guests would overhear them. “You know as well as I do that Black Jack was undoubtedly a paid assassin and that he is by now already rotting in a pauper’s grave.”

“But ... but ... I don’t ...”

“And do not try to persuade me that you do not dance, for I have seen you leading out any number of ladies.”

“Married
ladies only, I assure you, my boy.”

“You need not worry. I can vouch for Miss Prestwich; she will not set her cap for you.”

“But the problem is her aunt. I cannot abide that woman, don’t you know.”

“No, I do not know,” Demetrius said crossly. “I have been trying to find out what unforgivable thing you did to her all those years ago, but so far my mother refuses to divulge your secrets, and you are also proving quite impossible to pin down.”

“I? I? I did nothing to her—you should rather ask what she did to me!”

“What did she do to you?” Demetrius asked.

“She ... Oh, blast it all, Nephew, as much as I despise that woman, as a gentleman I cannot reveal what she did, not even to you, else I could not hold up my head in public any longer. Now, stop berating me, for it will do you no good.”

“I am not asking you to dance with the aunt,” Demetrius said in a low, menacing voice. “You may give her the cut direct for all I care. But you will be civil to the niece, or you will answer to me.”

Humphrey tugged his waistcoat down over his rounded paunch, brushed an imaginary speck of lint off the sleeve of his jacket, eyed Demetrius consideringly, then finally said sulkily, “Very well, I shall dance with the chit.”

“Thank you, Uncle, I knew I could count on you. You will find she is quite light on her feet. I do not think you need worry about your toes.”

“Bah!” was all the reply his uncle vouchsafed.

* * * *

“And then he asked me if I had hired someone to kill my sister’s suitors! Can you imagine such impertinence? Really, he was too droll.” Hester looked at her friend expectantly, but instead of smiling, Lionell raised his hand to cover a yawn.

“My dear, if you will persist in telling these boring stories about senile old men, I shall be forced to take myself off to the card room.”

“Well, I found him quite amusing.”

“Old people are never amusing, only tedious. I should prefer it if no one over the age of fifty were allowed in London.’’

Hester did not even smile at his feeble attempt at wit, although her lack of response did not appear to bother Lionell in the slightest. He began to tell her the current
on-dit
about Lord Westerholme’s wife, which was so titillating that Hester abandoned her affronted pose and related to Lionell the equally scandalous—and even possibly true—story she had heard concerning the third Baron Edgeford, father of the present baron.

* * * *

It was amazing what one could accomplish by greasing the right palm, Collier thought with a smile. Moving soundlessly through the darkened rooms of the solicitor’s premises, he soon reached the door he had been seeking. Taking a second key from his pocket, he inserted it in the lock, turned it, and heard the telltale snick of the bolt.

Once inside the room, he checked to see that the heavy curtains were tightly closed, then raised the shutter on his lantern only far enough that he could inspect the contents of the file drawers.

Finding the correct folder was more difficult than he had anticipated since there seemed to be no logic to the order of the files.

After a wasted hour he suddenly realized that they were after all arranged logically—not alphabetically, as might be expected, but by the rank and importance of the various clients. Going back to the first drawer, he quickly flipped past one duke, three earls, a half-dozen or so viscounts, innumerable barons, until he finally found the proper drawer containing records for baronets.

Moments later he was extracting the papers concerning Sir John Prestwich’s estate. Without any qualms he seated himself at the desk and began to copy the pertinent ones, using Mr. Wimbwell’s own quill and ink for his purpose.

The documents were long and full of legal terminology, and the sky was exhibiting a rosy tinge in the east by the time he was finished and the original documents were restored to their proper place.

Tucking the copies inside his jacket, he quickly and noiselessly left the premises, locking the doors behind him and hiding both keys in the crevice where he had been instructed to leave them.

A good night’s work, he thought with satisfaction. And the contents of the papers were damning enough to justify the risk he had taken. Demetrius would be very pleased to have his suspicions confirmed.

* * * *

Looking around Tattersall’s for his brother, Collier spotted his uncle instead. Humphrey Swinton was patting the neck of a flashy black gelding, whose groom was talking rapidly and earnestly.

“Good afternoon, Uncle,” Collier said, inspecting the beast with a jaundiced eye.

“Ah, Collier, my boy. How lucky for me that you have turned up at such an opportune time. Give me your opinion of this fine fellow—should I buy him or not?”

“That would depend, of course, on whether you were wishing to put him in your stables or in your stewpan.”

Collier’s answer did not please the groom overmuch. With a disgusted snort he led the horse away, no doubt seeking a less discerning customer to diddle.

Casting one last look at the departing pair, Humphrey said, “Are you sure, Nephew? It seemed like such a pretty horse—its coat was so shiny and healthy-looking.”

“Boot blacking,” Collier muttered, still checking the crowd for his brother.

“Really? How odd.”

“Only thing odd about it is finding it here at Tatt’s. It’s an old trick, but if one of the Tattersalls discovers it is being used here, the owner will have to take his business elsewhere. By the bye, have you seen Demetrius? I was told he was here.”

“Saw him not ten minutes ago down at the kennels. Told me he’s considering picking up some Welsh foxhounds. Wants to try running them with the English hounds—maybe even try a little cross-breeding. Can’t say I approve, but your brother always was determined to go his own way.”

A few minutes later Collier spotted his brother talking with old Mr. Tattersall. Moving through the group of men inspecting the various hounds, he waited impatiently while Demetrius finished his conversation. “Got something you will be interested in,” he said out of the corner of his mouth when Mr. Tattersall finally excused himself to talk to another customer.

“What is it?” Demetrius asked impatiently, his gaze and his attention still on a fine couple of hounds being exhibited.

“Can’t tell you here. Need to find someplace more private.” Sliding his hand inside his jacket, Collier pulled the papers out just enough that his brother could see the corners.

After eyeing them with some displeasure, Demetrius looked around, then led the way to a quiet corner, where he took the documents and flipped through them quickly, his face gradually turning an alarming shade of red. “Where the devil did you get these?”

Gleefully Collier explained how easily he had managed to acquire them. Instead of praising him for his resourcefulness, however, Demetrius continued to scowl at him.

“How could you have done such a childish trick?”

“Childish? There was nothing childish about it,” Collier snapped back, thoroughly incensed at his brother’s attitude. Demetrius was always determined to hog all the glory for himself; he never wanted Collier to receive credit for anything.

“You are correct—it was merely illegal, or had you considered that? Bribery, breaking and entering, stealing documents—is that the full extent of your criminal activities, or have you neglected to tell me the whole of it?”

“I should have known you would not appreciate the trouble I have gone to on your behalf.”

“Trouble? You do not seem to understand just how serious the consequences will be if anyone discovers what you have done.”

“No one suspects a thing.”

“And pray tell me how you can possibly know that.”

For the first time, Collier began to feel a trifle uneasy about his nocturnal adventure. “Well, and why would they suspect something? I left everything exactly the way I found it.”

“Did you? Are you absolutely positive? Is this another of your ‘sure things’?”

“Even if they suspect someone was there, I know I did not leave any evidence behind that would point to me.”

“You said you bribed a clerk to give you the keys. Can he not identify you?”

“Of course, but what does that signify? If he accuses me, then he accuses himself at the same time. I hardly think that likely.”

“Do you not? And how long do you think it will take for him to break down under persistent questioning? Will he not attempt to save his own skin by accusing you?’’

“But there is no reason for anyone to question him,” Collier insisted, beginning to feel a bit more nervous.

“Unless you left some sign of your entry.”

In his mind Collier could already hear the clang of the bars shutting behind him when they locked him up in Newgate Prison or wherever they kept condemned felons. “The risk seemed justified to me since this is a matter of life and death,” he finally said.

“I strongly doubt you considered the risk at all,” Demetrius said. Then, taking the papers with him, he stalked away.

* * * *

Someday, Demetrius decided, he would have to let Collier suffer the consequences of his rash actions. But not this time—not when Collier’s entire future hung in the balance.

Signaling a hack, Demetrius gave the driver instructions to drive him into the City. Jouncing along, he gradually became convinced that he was riding toward a disaster that he would not be able to prevent.

When he entered the solicitor’s office, it was as bad as he had feared. Instead of the solemn decorum of his previous visit, this time nobody greeted him or asked him to state his business. Instead, all the employees, from head clerk to lowest office boy, as well as the junior partner, had left their desks and were clustered around the door to Mr. Wimbwell's inner office.

Expecting the worst, Demetrius shouldered his way through the crowd until he could see into the adjoining room. The junior partner, who two days before had been so dignified, now had tears streaming down his cheeks.

Kneeling on the floor was a man who appeared to be a doctor. He was checking Mr. Wimbwell, who was lying on his back on the carpet. Even to Demetrius’s untrained eyes it was readily apparent that the doctor’s services were no longer required.

While everyone else’s attention was focused on the body, Demetrius glanced quickly around the room. He could spot no evidence of his brother’s visit, but something about the room jarred him.

The box of bonbons on the old man’s desk, he realized, coupled with chocolate smears on the deceased’s fingers.

“Apparently he has suffered a heart attack,” the doctor said, rising to his feet. “Hardly surprising, considering his age.”

“If I might have a word with you in private,” Demetrius said. Then, as if it were his own office, he directed the junior partner to clear the room and then shut the door.

“I’m Stephen Jamison, my lord,” the man said as soon as the others had returned to their desks. “As junior partner, I suppose I am in charge here now until Mr. Wimbwell’s son can be sent for. He is senior to me, but unfortunately he left yesterday morning to attend to some pressing business in Edinburgh. I fear it will be most difficult to send word to him.”

“The possibility exists that Mr. Wimbwell may have been poisoned. I suggest you have the candy analyzed,” Demetrius said quietly.

“Poisoned?” Mr. Jamison collapsed weakly onto a chair.

“What candy?” the doctor inquired, looking around. “Ah, yes,
that
candy.”

“It seems likely that the deceased was eating it just before he died,” Demetrius pointed out. “Where did it come from?”