The Vanishing Thief (13 page)

The smile disappeared. “What is it?”

“I'd like to speak to any staff who were involved in serving tea to Victoria Dutton-Cox and your sister the day Victoria died.”

I braced myself for a quick rejection. Instead, he quietly asked, “Why? That was a long time ago.”

“Two years.”

“What can you possibly hope to accomplish?”

“I'm trying to discover what secret could be so dangerous that someone might want Drake killed rather than paying his demands or stopping him through legal channels. I've learned Drake was present when Victoria died. Did something happen that day to threaten Drake's life much later?”

He kept his expression rigid, but a note of anguish wavered in his voice. “Don't you think I've asked every single person who was involved in any way that day for everything they saw and heard? Asked them more than once?”

“I believe you. I still want to ask.”

“What purpose could it serve?”

I didn't want to admit Lady Julia's comments about the teapots had captured my attention. “I want to make certain the right questions were asked. I'm a woman, not their employer, and they have no reason to keep quiet about the details with me.”

“What details?”

“Things a duke wouldn't pay attention to.”

“I assure you I pay attention to details. Especially when it concerns the death of the young woman I was to marry.”

I looked into his eyes. I didn't see sorrow in them while discussing his fiancée's death, but I had seen sorrow after I'd asked to speak to his staff. “Perhaps your servants were trying to protect you from anything that might hurt you.”

“She was dead. What more could possibly hurt me?”

“The manner of her death.”

He held my gaze for a long moment before he said, “I'll introduce you to my cook, Mrs. Potter. She knows everything that happens in her department and who else was working that day and is still employed here.”

I followed him along the hall and down the back staircase to the kitchen. Several women, mostly young, were sitting or standing at a long table carrying on various household tasks, from slicing vegetables to mending. They all immediately set aside their work and stood facing us.

“Mrs. Potter, ladies, this is Georgia Fenchurch. She wants to know what occurred in this house the day Victoria Dutton-Cox died. Please give her any information she may require.” The duke swung around and marched past me to the stairs.

I could hear his footsteps on the wooden steps as I faced the half dozen women in aprons. None wore a welcoming expression. Mrs. Potter was perhaps in her forties and looked strong enough to enforce her wishes on the others. “Mrs. Potter, I'm primarily interested in who fixed the tea and what happened to the teapots after the young ladies left the house.”

“Sally always fixes the tea. She did that day, using Lady Margaret's new teapots. Ever so nice and delicate they were. Too delicate. When the young ladies were helping Miss Victoria out to the carriage, their skirts caught and knocked the tray over. The tea was spilled and one of the pots broke.”

Was it an accident that the tea was spilled? I was being silly. Victoria didn't complain about the taste, so it probably wasn't the tea that was poisoned. “What happened?”

“We cleaned up the tea, threw out the broken china, and washed whatever was left,” one of the girls said.

“That's Sally,” Mrs. Potter said.

“You're the one who made the tea. And then you carried it up to the parlor where the young ladies were?”

“Yes.”

“Only tea?”

“Yes. Lady Margaret told us earlier that Miss Victoria was getting too heavy to fit into her wedding dress, so not to bring up any biscuits with the tea.”

“Did Miss Victoria complain that her hostess was being”—I searched for a word—“unwelcoming?”

Sally looked away. “I wouldn't know.”

“Yes, you would. Those two were well-known for their disagreements. I would have listened, if only to warn the other staff if their mistress was going to be angry.”

Sally and Mrs. Potter exchanged glances. Mrs. Potter shrugged. Sally nodded. “Miss Victoria said, ‘Can't wait to get rid of me, can you?' Lady Margaret said, ‘Oh, sit down and drink your tea. You'll soon be able to order anything in this house that you want.'”

“Did you hear anything else?”

“No. I went downstairs then.” Sally twisted her apron, obviously agitated over being questioned about what she'd heard between Lady Margaret and Miss Victoria.

I tried asking about that day from a different angle. “What china was broken?”

Sally let go of her apron. “The teapot Lady Julia Waxpool drank from split in two. Each pot had a different floral design. Pretty they were, and I remember distinctly which young lady drank from which. She arrived just a minute after I brought the first two and I was sent for another teapot and cup. Two of the cups and saucers and tea balls were so badly crushed I couldn't tell where all the slivers came from.”

Lady Julia was still alive. There was no reason to break her teapot on purpose. I was certain the tea wasn't poisoned. “Is Lady Margaret that fussy about her tea that she'd have individual teapots for her guests?”

“She's always been,” Mrs. Potter said. “Even as a little girl, tea cozies weren't good enough for her. Tea had to be fresh that minute and piping hot.”

“Tell me how you fixed tea for her.” Was there something special in the ritual that could have led to Victoria's death?

“Same as always.” Sally began to sound mutinous.

“Please.”

“When Mrs. Potter brought the water to a boil, I put some in the pots and then waited a moment before pouring that water into the cups to warm them up. Once I tossed that water, I filled up the teapots and put everything on the tray. Milk, sugar, cups, saucers, spoons. Then I carried it up.”

“Who put the tea leaves in the pots?”

“I did. Well, I put the tea into tea balls and put them into the pots. Little things they were to match the teapots. Then I carried the pots up with the tea already brewing, ready for Lady Margaret when I reached the parlor.”

“And the tea all came from one source?”

“Yes. That tin right there.” Sally pointed to a tea tin over the stove.

“How often are the remaining teapots used? It sounds like Lady Margaret had a good solution to cold tea in the pot when someone arrives late.”

Mrs. Potter answered. “She only used them that one day. Said it reminded her of Miss Victoria's death and she couldn't stand to look at them. The duke had us give the pots that were left to a charity drive a year ago.”

I decided to try a different line of questioning. “Had the visit been planned long?”

“Miss Victoria sent a note that morning saying she'd call at teatime. The lady's maid, Ethel, came into the kitchen while the visit was going on and told us Lady Margaret grumbled that Miss Victoria would soon be here night and day, and couldn't she wait a week before ruining every one of Lady Margaret's days.”

“Did Lady Margaret do anything to get ready for Miss Victoria's arrival?” I'd suspect sharpening knives except Miss Victoria wasn't stabbed.

“Just ordered flowers and arranged them.”

“What did she order?”

“Lilies of the valley. Lady Margaret said they looked bridal. She was just cutting up the leaves when I came in to light the fire in the parlor,” Sally said.

“Cutting up the leaves?” That didn't sound right.

“Yes. Into little pieces. Isn't that how you arrange them?” Sally asked.

I had no idea. Girls who were raised like I was to work in a shop never had time to learn about flower arranging. But working in a bookshop had its rewards. Anything I wanted to learn was a hand's reach away.

And I would look up lilies of the valley just as soon as I returned after a walk down Hyde Park Place. It was the only clue I had until Inspector Grantham gave me the details in Denis Lupton's death or I heard more rumors about a Gutenberg Bible for sale in London.

After twelve years, it was time I solved my parents' murder.

Chapter Ten

I
T
was sundown and the light was quickly fading from our street when the man came into my shop, tilting his bowler hat to keep the light out of his eyes. He wore a jacket and loose-fitting trousers of some cheap material, but his muddied boots looked new and well made.

I came out from behind the counter. “May I help you?”

“You wanted to meet me.” His deep voice was scratchy, as if from disuse, and he kept his head down so I couldn't see more than his mouth and chin below the brim of his hat.

He had to be the Duke of Blackford's man. “I do. I'm Georgia Fenchurch. And you are?”

“Sumner.” He took off his hat and held it in front of him by one hand so I couldn't see his face. Then he held out the other hand, which I shook. My grip let me feel the well-made leather gloves that fit him like a second skin. His gloves and boots wouldn't have looked out of place on the duke, but his clothes were the same as my neighbor the greengrocer wore. No one would give him a second look in our neighborhood, unless they were examining him closely the way I was.

“May I see your face?”

“Rather you didn't.”

“And I'd rather I could recognize you from my foes if the need arises.”

Emma came out from the office and walked toward the man. As she did, he began to back up toward the door.

I held out a hand to delay him. “This is Emma Keyes, my assistant and a fellow Archivist Society member. You have nothing to fear from her.” The words slid from my mouth like they would if he were a skittish child.

“She might fear me.”

He lowered his hat then, and I'm ashamed to say I took a step back. One side of his face was normal, perhaps handsome, but the other was grotesquely scarred from his dented cheekbone to his puckered jaw. He'd kept his eye by sheer luck or the grace of providence. I wondered if his voice had been made raspy in the same battle.

Emma stepped forward, holding out her hand to the disfigured man. “I have no reason to fear you. But why would Georgia need to recognize you from her foes?”

“The Duke of Blackford hired me to guard Miss Fenchurch when she goes out at night.”

Emma turned to me then. “Why would the Duke of Blackford hire someone to guard you at night?”

Blast.
I hadn't planned to worry her or Phyllida. “There was an incident after I left Lady Westover's the other night. The duke witnessed the event and came to my rescue.”

Her hands went to her waist and she tapped her foot. “When were you planning to tell me?”

When I finished crying over the ruin of my evening gown and all it represented. Happiness with the man I loved and all our dreams of our life together. I refused to admit my reasons in front of a man employed by the Duke of Blackford. “When I figured out which of the lords sent a pair of thugs to attack me.”

“Or abduct you, like Mr. Drake was abducted. Georgia, think. This case may be too dangerous to undertake.”

“Not with Mr. Sumner's help.” I smiled at him, but I was still wary. “Did His Grace send you with something so I would know he truly sent you?”

Sumner grimaced, or perhaps he smiled. His face was so damaged I couldn't tell one from the other. He reached into an inner coat pocket and produced a note on the duke's letterhead.

This man, John Sumner, is in my employ and going about my business.

It was signed
Gordon Ranleigh, Duke of Blackford.

I handed the letter back to him and he slipped it back into his inside pocket. “I don't plan to go out tonight, so I'm afraid you won't have anything to do. With this investigation, I doubt I'll have to go out at night. Thank you for coming by, but there's nothing for you to do here.”

He turned to my assistant. “Are you going out tonight, Miss Keyes?”

She favored him with one of her most charming smiles. “No. I'll be at home all night.”

He stared at her with adoration for a moment before turning back to me. “His Grace told me to give you this. He expects both of you to attend.”

In his hand were engraved invitations to a masked ball to be held in several days. Not just any masked ball, but the crush the Duke and Duchess of Arlington held every year. All of society would be there, but in costumes and wearing masks, it would be difficult to tell one from another. Under the circumstances, no one would know we were interlopers.

“It appears we'll have to go out one night with this investigation. I hope the duke will employ you that evening. Did he tell you why he wants both of us to attend?”

“No.”

“Did he suggest what costumes we're to wear?”

“You're to tell him when you know.”

“What will His Grace wear?”

“Don't know. But he doesn't want your costumes to match his.”

Presumably so no one would associate him with us. “Have you worked for the duke for long?”

“No.”

Sumner mustn't like to talk. So far his answers had been short and barely informative. “So you don't know if the duke attends this ball every year.”

“He told me he doesn't. Too many silly people doing silly things.” His gravelly voice finally had enough expression to tell me he agreed with his employer. But when would Sumner have attended a ball? His wounded face would make him as ineligible as someone of my class if I weren't going to the dance at the order of a duke to find a missing man.

“If I were a duke, I'd want everyone to know who I am, costume ball or not,” Emma said with all the assurance her twenty years gave her.

At thirty, I had some sympathy for the duke's position. “It must be tiresome to have everyone know who you are every moment of your life, scrutinizing your every move. In our work, we prize anonymity.”

“Yes, but I'm not a duchess. If I were, I'd want to be the center of attention,” Emma insisted. “I'd be proud of my works.”

I turned to ask Mr. Sumner his opinion, but he was gazing at Emma and his rapturous thoughts were written in his eyes. Emma had won herself another devoted slave.

The bell over the shop door rang and fellow Archivist Society member Frances Atterby walked in muffled in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves so that only her eyes were visible. She huffed and puffed as she began to remove layers. “What a ghastly night. Such a cold breeze. At least it seems to be breaking up the fog. Thank you, Georgia,” she added as I took her scarf and gloves from her.

“Oh, hello,” she added as she spotted Sumner. “You'll find tonight a good one to stay in and read.” She approached him with a friendly smile, decades of working in the family hotel ingrained in her manner.

“I'm here for the Duke of Blackford,” he said in his deep, scratchy voice. He remained motionless, his hat held to the side of his face as if in the act of putting it on, so that Frances couldn't see his terrible scar.

“The duke is a good man,” Frances replied and then drew me to the side, leaving Emma with Sumner. “I found the most extraordinary thing in the records of Somerset House. Nicholas Drake married Anne Carter four years ago in Northumberland. The records show Anne has an older sister, Edith.”

“Then why does Edith, his sister by marriage, live next door to him? You'd think he'd invite her into his household. Where is Anne? And why all these lies when Edith came to ask for our help?” My mind was swimming with possibilities, each more ludicrous than the last. I felt used by her. She'd deceived me, and that was something I couldn't abide.

“You need to ask her that and if she knows where Drake is before we continue this investigation.” Frances concentrated on unbuttoning her coat.

I wished she and Sumner would both leave so I could tame my unruly thoughts. They both appeared to be staying for a while, Sumner listening raptly to Emma while Frances continued to unwrap herself after fighting the elements outside.

And then a customer came in, blinking at the brightly lit room after the darkness outside. Emma pulled Sumner aside to the biography section. Frances whispered, “You need to hear the rest of what I've learned about Miss Carter and Drake before you go any further with this. I'll wait until you finish with him,” and settled in the recent novels.

I put on my professional smile and stepped forward to wait on the rabbity-looking man, but my mind was still speculating on what other revelations Frances Atterby brought with her.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING,
I rode the omnibus into the suburbs where Edith Carter lived. I enjoyed the glare of sunshine reflecting off the streets and buildings. A number of people asked about the yellow ball in the sky, but their jests were met with smiles. A warm, sunny day after a period of rain and fog brought out the best in Londoners.

Children were out playing and mothers pushing prams when I walked from the bus stop to Miss Carter's house. The plain brick fronts of the rows of houses looked almost pretty in the sunshine, and the tiny front gardens showed the first buds on the plants.

I knocked on the door of Miss Carter's house, expecting the maid to appear. Instead, Miss Carter herself answered my summons.

When she saw I was alone, she looked crestfallen, but she quickly recovered and said, “What are you doing here?”

“I'm looking for Nicholas Drake.”

“He's not here. You should be out searching for him. I repeat, why are you here?”

“While checking the public records, we found you've not been completely forthcoming with us.”

“I've not?” All her bluster fled her and she shrank back from the door.

I took this as an invitation to enter and shut the door behind me. “No. You didn't tell me you are from Blackford, the village closest to Castle Blackford in Northumberland. That you know the Duke of Blackford on sight. That Nicholas Drake is from that same village. That he married your sister, Anne Carter. That your parents, rather than living with you as you said, still reside in Blackford. And that you live in Canada with your husband, Mr. Norris, so we can't possibly be having this conversation.”

She spun on her heel and marched into the parlor, leaving the door open. I followed her. She remained standing and didn't offer me a seat. “I came here following Nicholas, but I didn't want you to know I was living on my own.”

“I'll admit it's unusual, but . . .”

“It's more than unusual, it's scandalous, and I'm finished with scandals.” She wrapped her arms around her waist as she turned away from me.

I waited for what came next.

“I love him, but I want the respect due a married woman.”

I kept silent, knowing she had more to say.

She paced quickly around the room, finally coming to rest behind a chair where she glared at me. “Don't look at me with that judgmental scowl.”

“You said you were finished with scandals.”

“I am.” Her shoulders slumped. “Or I was until I moved down here, and Nicholas refused to admit to anyone that he had a wife. It was his idea that I live next door.”

“Because he couldn't play the descendant of French royalty, the single gentleman, if he had a wife from Northumberland who wanted to live an honest life.”

“You learned about my time in prison for theft?”

I nodded.

“Thank you for not throwing it in my face.”

“I suspect you confessed to save Drake.”

“Yes. How foolish could I be? But he promised to be waiting for me to start life over again where we weren't known.”

“This wasn't what you had in mind. Why use your sister's name, Anne?”

“Edith doesn't have a police record.”

“Does Mr. Drake?”

“No. Not really. Not much of one. I saw to that.”

“Where is Drake now?”

“I don't know.”

I was tired of playing games. I raised my voice. If Nicholas Drake was in the house and had any feelings for his wife, he'd appear. “Don't give me that. He's your husband. You know where he is.”

“No.”

Louder. “You've always known where he was. Even when you were in prison.”

She yelled back at me. “No. That's why I came to you. To the Archivist Society. I want him returned to me alive and well.”

“I don't believe you. You know where he is.” I was shouting now.

“No, I don't. If I did, I would go there myself and get him.” With the tears running down her cheeks and a fiery gleam in her eyes, she showed every sign of being ready to cross hell to bring him home.

I lowered my voice. “I believe you would. So believe me when I say we will find him, just as we found out your secrets.”

Her plain face became beautiful as she smiled. “Thank you.”

“Tell me what really happened the night you said Nicholas Drake was abducted.”

“Sit down. Please.”

We sat across from each other in front of an unlit fire on matching balloon chairs with red brocade seats. Anne Drake, or Edith Carter as I kept thinking of her, studied her hands for a moment. “Nicholas said he'd stay at his house that night because he'd be returning late from dinner with a lord and didn't want to disturb me.”