The Runaway McBride (33 page)

Roderick raised his cup to his lips and gazed at James over the rim. He looked, thought James, like a schoolboy who had been caught out by the headmaster in some heinous mischief.

A schoolmaster! Is that how he appeared to his younger brother? How had that come about? And why hadn’t he applied to him, James, to pay off their father’s debts?

He was sunk in thought when Roderick cleared his throat again. “James?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know what text Faith’s mother used? ”

“No, but Faith may know.” James scraped back his chair. “I’ll go and ask.”

“She’s not here. They all went off together: Faith, Aunt Mariah, Harriet, and my mother.”

“What?”
James’s cup rattled as he put it down.

Roderick frowned. “I thought you knew, or I would have told you right away. It was arranged days ago. They’re having luncheon at Verry’s on Regent Street, then they’re going on to Burlington House to take in an exhibition of watercolors. After that, I think they’re going to do a little shopping in the Burlington Arcade.”

James looked at the clock. It was well past noon. He’d overslept, but it had never occurred to him that there was need for haste. He’d taken it for granted that Faith wouldn’t go anywhere without discussing it with him first.

Roderick seemed to grasp his unease. “Do you think those louts whom we fought off will try to harm her?”

“I don’t know.”

“But why would they? It’s the diary they want, and she isn’t likely to have it on her. If they do anything, they’ll come here.”

“You’re probably right.” James braced his hands on the table and heaved himself to his feet. “All the same, I’d feel easier if I were there, you know, just in case.”

“For the love of God!” Roderick got up as well. “You’re in no fit state to fight your way out of a soap bubble. I’ll go. You’d better alert the servants to keep a close guard on the house.”

He strode for the door.

“Roddy!” James called out.

“Yes? ”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it.”

It was the customary response, a mark of civility that signified nothing. On this occasion, however, Roderick’s shy smile and unguarded expression drove another nail into James’s already overburdened conscience. Why had he never made the attempt to get to know this boy?

After Roderick left, the porridge arrived, but James did not pick up his spoon right away. He was thinking of Faith, wondering if he ought to go to her. He thought for a moment and decided that he was overreacting. Three days had passed since he’d taken the diary from the Winslet girl. The killer must know that Faith didn’t know anything, or he would be in custody right now. Roderick was right. It was the diary the killer wanted.

He dipped his spoon into his bowl and found that his porridge had the consistency of wet cement. His stomach heaved. Pushing his bowl away, he got up and went in search of Butcher to alert him to the possibility that there were housebreakers in the area, and he should take every precaution to keep them out.

 

 

He made straight for Faith’s room to get the diary and other
personal effects. After that, he retired to his own room and spread everything out on the table in front of the window.

There was little enough to go through. Her father’s papers were tied together with a piece of string. He set them aside. What he was left with was the diary, the replies to Faith’s advertisement, the photograph of her mother, and the group photograph taken in the courtyard of the Grand Hotel. He’d studied them many times. Nothing seemed to point him in any one direction.

He’d discovered that when he kept moving, the stiffness in his joints and limbs became easier to manage. It was when he sat down that he turned into a block of wood. That being the case, he took a few turns around the room, then stopped in front of the long cheval mirror. His own reflection stared back at him, and it was not a pretty sight. The swelling under his eye had subsided, but the purple bruise was running to yellow. He pulled back his lips. At least he still had all his teeth.

“Well, Granny,” he said, “where do I go from here?” There was no response, nor did he expect one. “You don’t need to give me a name. A face would be helpful.” Only his own ravaged face stared back at him. He went back to the table, and the first thing his eyes alighted on was the photograph of Faith’s mother. He held it up to the light.

Not for the first time, he thought that the resemblance between Faith and her mother was uncanny. All the same, he would have known who was who at a glance. He’d met replicas of Madeline Maynard in the boardrooms of commercial and financial institutions, but those were all men who were driven to succeed. He was one of them. The same kind of resolve shone in Madeline’s eyes. He did not object to a woman with ambition. The girls who would graduate from St. Winnifred’s were a case in point. They would bring in a new era. Alex would applaud. He would get used to it eventually, but what he would never get used to was a selfish wretch who deserted her own daughter without a backward glance.

He thought of Dora Winslet and felt a pang of regret. There was always one bad apple in the barrel. On the other hand, if she learned from her mistakes, she might well turn out to be the first female member of Parliament.

Madeline’s diary lay tantalizingly within reach but beyond his powers to decode, not because he hadn’t grasped the essentials of Scovell’s code, but because he didn’t have the text to break it.

He looked at the diary more closely, then brushed his fingers over the leather cover. It was cracked in places, but the gold-leaf lettering denoting the owner was still legible. Madeline Maynard.

He took a step back, his brows beetled in concentration. He’d seen a book very like this in Faith’s room at St. Winnifred’s when he’d gone through her things. The book was a commentary on Herodotus’s histories, and the author was her father. She was very proud of that book.

His aches and pains were forgotten as he made his way to Faith’s room once again. He found what he wanted, in plain sight, among the books she kept on her bedside table. Not a twitch or twinge entered his conscience as he returned to his own room, pulled a chair up to his writing table, and set to work.

Within two minutes, he knew that he was on the right track. “Page number, column, words or letters from the top,” he muttered in sequence as his fingers traced over first one book then the other. He jotted down each letter as he deciphered it. After twenty minutes, he stopped, exultant over his success. He read the words he’d deciphered back to himself.

Though there was a lot more to decode, he stopped right there. Faith had told him that on Madeline’s last night, she’d told Lady Cowdray that she’d recognized or thought she’d recognized an acquaintance. She’d seemed out of sorts.

It had to be Basil Hughes. Everything was coming together.

Toombs. Toombs.
The name meant something to him. He got up, crossed to the table where he’d laid out Faith’s effects, and picked up the replies to her advertisement. Apart from Lady Cowdray’s letter, they were all asking for money.

He found the one he wanted. It was signed by Liza Begg of Greek Street in Soho.

The hair on the back of his neck was beginning to rise. Basil Hughes was Arthur Toombs. What relation was he to Bertha Toombs?

He cleared the table, returned the articles to Faith’s room, then called for a footman to find him a hansom cab to take him to Greek Street.

 

 

The exhibition of English watercolors at Burlington House
did not hold Harriet’s attention for long. She wanted to flit from painting to painting in double quick time so that they could all go shopping next door in the Burlington Arcade.

Faith didn’t blame the child for being restless. She was, after all, only eleven. She was becoming restless herself. She kept looking at her watch, hoping it was time it move on. Not that she was particularly interested in the shops in the Burlington Arcade. It was the outing itself that had appealed to her, something to take her mind off the havoc that had blasted her quiet, staid existence to pieces in the last little while.

It wasn’t finished yet, James had told her, but his dream was about a derelict house with a cantilevered staircase. There were no derelict houses here nor in the Burlington Arcade. What was there to fear?

Truth to tell, she was rather pleased with herself. She’d been drifting, allowing others—James most of all—to take charge of her life and make decisions for her. It was time she took charge of her own life. This little outing was a step in the right direction.

They’d been staring at the same watercolor for a full five minutes. She stifled a yawn. When Harriet began to mutter under her breath, Faith was struck by a sudden inspiration.

“Why don’t I take Harriet to the arcade? ” she said. “We can meet there at Madame Digby’s after you’re finished here.”

Harriet clapped her hands. “Then I can choose the material for my flower girl’s dress.”

Faith held her peace. No good trying to correct Harriet. They all believed what they wanted to believe.

Margaret was reluctant. “Oh, no, Faith, that would not be fair to you. I should be the one to take Harriet out. You stay and enjoy yourself.”

“It’s no trouble,” Faith protested.

Harriet was more vociferous. She wanted Faith, and only Faith would do. The argument was settled by Aunt Mariah.

“You worry too much, Margaret. Leave the child alone. Faith is a teacher. She knows how to manage mischievous children.”

Faith reflected on Aunt Mariah’s words as they crossed the courtyard into Piccadilly, made a sharp right, and entered the Burlington Arcade. She was wondering how much mischief one small girl could get into in the arcade. There was no traffic to navigate, only strollers like themselves who were admiring the wares in the shop windows.

Dora Winslet suddenly came to mind, prompting Faith to tell Harriet to take her hand.

She could not think of Dora with an easy heart. James was right. What that girl had done was far more serious than mischief-making. She’d conspired with Robert Danvers to steal Madeline’s diary. Dora had told him about her appointment with Lady Cowdray without a thought for whom she might be putting in danger. And for what? For love? And though she must know now that Robert had used her for his own ends, she still professed her love for him.

That was not love. That was willful blindness.

The thought brought James to mind. Their irregular situation—or did she mean relationship?—had to be resolved one way or another. She was sure, hoped, that she meant more to him than a casual fling.

Or was that willful blindness on her part?

She was his mission. Her jaw clenched, and her eyes began to heat. The devil she was! It was humiliating to be thought of in those terms. Not only was the man hopeless at writing letters, he was useless at putting words together, except in the throes of making love, and what woman could believe what a man said to her then?

Why wouldn’t he say the right words?

Jackass!

Harriet tugged on her hand. “Faith,” she said, so softly that Faith had to lower her head to hear, “there’s a man following us. No, don’t look back. You can see him in the shop windows.”

Heart thumping, Faith said, “How can you be sure that he is following us?”

“He stops when we stop and pretends that he is interested in the goods that are displayed. He’s looking at dolls. Even I don’t look at dolls anymore.”

Harriet’s anxious eyes stared up at Faith. “Do you think he is a pickpocket? ”

To allay Harriet’s fears, Faith said, “There’s a beadle in this arcade who is trained to help people. We’re going to find the beadle and tell him about the man you think is following us.”

“What’s a beadle?”

“He’s a sort of policeman.”

Faith told herself that the poor gentleman who was behind them was probably as innocent as a lamb. Besides, the real danger would not come until she entered the derelict house. But she could be hurt. She could be maimed. Isn’t that why James was there to rescue her when she went to see Lady Cowdray?

What if James wasn’t a seer? What if it was all in his imagination?

She patted her reticule. She had her revolver with her. She wasn’t helpless.

They stopped to admire the display of ladies’ hats in a milliner’s window. The glass reflected the shoppers nearby. As naturally as she could manage, Faith angled her head this way and that to get a better look at the pedestrians. Then she saw him, and her heart skipped a beat. She knew him, but she didn’t remember how or where she knew him. He was a well-set-up man, fiftyish, with a powerful physique and austere features that looked to be carved from stone. Most telling of all, however, was the abrasion across one cheek.

She watched as he turned his head in her direction, then he lifted his fingers to touch the brim of his silk top hat. He could be signaling to someone up ahead, someone who had entered the arcade from the Burlington Gardens end.

She mustn’t let her imagination run away with her. Supposing he was one of the villains James and Roderick had encountered at St. Winnifred’s, how could he have known that she would come here today? Who had told him? How had he found out? From Margaret? Aunt Mariah? One of the maids?

It wasn’t a secret. If he’d wanted to find out what engagements she had, it would not be difficult.