Unbound (14 page)

"Henry, please," Annette said, face gone green.

Goddard went on, patting his wife's hand absently as he spoke. "He'll be knighted for his efforts, believe me. 'The man who brought down the Thugs and ushered in the era of modern investigative techniques.'"

"Superintendent Goddard is going to visit Sleeman in a few weeks," Crimson added, desperate to reinsert himself into the conversation. "See it all firsthand. He studies the region daily on a globe in his den."

This was the wrong thing to say. Annette went wide-eyed at the remark and hissed something at her husband.

"Not now, dear," Goddard said to her through the side of his mouth.

"Our child will be born while you're halfway around the world? Just so you can see piles of strangled corpses?"

"Later."

"Will you even make it back before the baby's first birthday?"

"Later!" Goddard snapped.

But Annette would not be quieted, and soon the couple made their excuses and left Crimson alone with the Scandinavian heiress. This change of circumstances was not unwelcome, but to Crimson's disappointment Malena spent the next hour distracted and sullen, as if she'd been the one to argue with Annette Goddard. Or perhaps Crimson's accidental disclosure of Goddard's plans had left her unimpressed. Whatever the case, she'd gone cold. Withdrawn.

The bill came and Crimson paid. Malena sat and waited, patiently, fingers fidgeting with the coin at her neck. The scarf . . . Crimson stared at it. It had been black, he could have sworn. And yet she wore a blue scarf now. A trick of the light? "Did you change scarves?" he asked.

Malena glanced at him, perplexed. Suddenly annoyed. "Pardon me?"

He gestured to it. "I could have sworn it was black."

She shook her head, the matter settled. "Please take me back to the hotel, John."

* * * * *

A pounding on the door of Crimson's flat woke him, well before sunrise. He opened it, bleary-eyed, to the breathless sweat-soaked figure of a policeman. "Super needs you," the boy said. "There's been a break-in."

"Where?"

"He's at home."

"I mean the break-in."

"At his home," the man repeated.

"Christ," Crimson said. "Anyone hurt?"

"Don't know sir. He asked for you."

Crimson dressed in a hurry and rushed to Goddard's, a dozen blocks away in an upscale neighborhood. Out of habit Crimson went to the back of the house, which crowded up against a narrow alley and, beyond, a richly foliaged park laced with footpaths. The sun had yet to rise, and back here the city was nearly pitch black. An officer waited in the alley, lantern in hand, and ushered Crimson inside without a word.

Silence draped the house, until floorboards creaking under Crimson's feet announced him. Goddard stood in the main hallway, leaning against a wall with his hands clasped in front of him. He stared into the open door of a room, candlelight spilling out to paint him in dancing shades of yellow. Crimson came to stand next to him, saying nothing. His superior wore a stony expression, face lined in deep concentration.

The room was the study. Shelves of books lined the walls. A globe on a pedestal stood in one corner. Dominating the space was Goddard's oak desk, a gigantic slab of lacquered wood mounted on four massive legs. Crimson had been here many times before and always marveled internally at the cleanliness of the place. The order. An absolute contrast to the chaos of Goddard's office at Scotland Yard. He'd explained once that this place was the one room he could go to and not be distracted by the piles of work, or the chores of running one's household. An oasis of order.

The room was a disheveled mess.

Papers strewn everywhere. Books pulled off the shelves, laying face down and spine open on the carpeted floor. A safe embedded in the sidewall stood wide open, contents splayed out on the ground around it. And, opposite the globe on the back wall, a single narrow window was cracked a few inches ajar. Cold air spilled in. The window creaked in the breeze, swinging in then out, as if breathing.

Crimson ignored a sudden chill. He took a step forward. "What was stolen?"

He stopped abruptly, Goddard's hand suddenly pressing against his chest to hold him at the precipice.

"Let's do this carefully," the man said. "Methodical. As Sleeman would."

Crimson found himself nodding. "Yeah, all right."

"Tell me what you see."

John Crimson took in the room again. He shrugged; the answer seemed obvious. "Someone was looking for something. In a hurry. Money or jewels from the safe will be gone, I suspect."

To his surprise, Goddard shook his head. "We're meant to think so."

"Sir?"

His boss gestured expansively. "All this," he said, "should have made a hell of a noise. But I heard nothing until a breeze made that window clack against the frame, waking me."

"I . . ." Crimson said, and swallowed. "I don't understand."

"This is staged, John."

"There was no break-in?"

"Oh, there was a break-in alright." He seemed about to say more, then fell silent.

"Still a bit confused here, sir."

Goddard sighed, but not, Crimson thought, from annoyance. The man was trying to convince himself, as if trying to work out a magician's trick at a West End show. "The burglar, or burglars, came in through the window. They were after something specific. The safe, perhaps, I'm not sure yet. Then, once in possession of their prize, they proceeded to quietly and methodically create this mess."

Crimson studied the room again, still confused. He was about to ask how Goddard could know they made the mess after the robbery, but then he saw it. "No footprints," he said.

"Very good, John."

"They came in through the window. A flower garden out there, if I'm not mistaken."

"You are not mistaken."

"Their boots or shoes would have been damp at the very least, muddy more than likely. Yet the papers on the floor are unblemished."

"Not even rumpled."

Crimson pictured a thief walking backward toward the window, scattering papers in their wake. "We may find muddy footprints on the carpet then."

"Indeed. In fact you can see some, in a gap just there," Goddard said, pointing.

Something still didn't add up. "Why go to that trouble, though? Why not take the boots off at the sill and make the whole thing clean?"

"It is a mystery, isn't it? I suspect," the superintendent said, "all will become clear when we know what was taken, and that is no small task. There's so much detritus here I'm half convinced the thieves brought some papers with them just to add to the mess."

"Only you will know what is missing, of course, but I'll help in any way I can. There may be more clues we have yet to spot."

Goddard grasped Crimson’s shoulder. "Now you're thinking like Major Sleeman. Let's get to it then."

* * * * *

Hours later, at 7 a.m., Annette brought them eggs with thick-sliced toast coated in butter, plus a carafe of steaming Arabica coffee. They ate in the hall, at Goddard's insistence, so as to not contaminate the room. Fed and caffeinated--it was by far the best coffee Crimson had ever tasted--they returned to the laborious task, with Crimson surveying every inch of the room for possible clues while Goddard attempted to catalog the spilled papers and other debris from his mental recollection of the contents prior to the invasion.

There were indeed the hints of muddy footprints on the rug below the scattered papers. Crimson also found a single black thread dangling from the window's protruding hasp. Silk, he thought. An unusual textile in London, but it made sense if one wished to move about with stealth. He wrapped it in a paper envelope, wondering what Goddard would do with such a clue. Take it to the cloth vendors and the fine clothiers, perhaps? Look for a match in color and thread quality, then scour the billings for a possible suspect. Rather thin. Likely a waste of time. Crimson stuffed the paper in his pocket.

The clock struck nine when Henry Goddard, kneeling on the floor beside stacks of papers, rocked back on his heels and ran a hand over his tired face. "I don't understand."

"What is it? What's missing?"

"That's just it. Nothing."

"What?"

"It's all here, John."

Crimson cast a glance about the room, deflated. "Whoever it was sought something specific and did not find it, then."

Goddard reluctantly agreed. Neither of them commented on the implication: trespassing was a much less serious crime than theft, no matter the stature of the victim. He sent Crimson away then, saying he would stay home a few days to sooth the nerves of his pregnant wife, asking Crimson to manage affairs at the Yard as best he could.

Two days passed with Crimson drifting through his duties, his mind equally distracted by the crime scene within Goddard's home and the lack of contact with the lovely Malena. She'd vanished from his life as abruptly as she'd entered it. Inquires at her hotel were rebuffed on grounds of client privacy. Upon presenting his Scotland Yard warrant book, the clerk admitted no one by the name Malena Penar was on their current guest list, nor, upon Crimson insisting they check, even on their list of clients from the last few weeks.

"What about the name Penar?" he asked, thinking of her brother, how he'd left her on Old Kent Road, and what else a man like that might be capable of. Intuition made a vein on his temple begin to twitch.

"Nothing, inspector. Look for yourself."

"I think I will," Crimson said, and for the next hour he pored through each entry. He found nothing either, though one name made him trip up twice during his search. A current resident by the name Mona Pendisio. M. P. Crimson flipped the book around and tapped it. "I'd like entry to this room, please."

The manager came with him, along with a porter holding a ring of keys. No one answered at the knock, so Crimson stepped aside and let the door be unlocked. The two men waited in the hall as he entered with truncheon in hand.

An empty room. Bed unmade. Closet wide open, devoid of clothing. Drawers left pulled open.

And, unmistakably, her scent. It lingered in the air, as if she'd just left.

The manager came in a step.

"Remain in the hall," Crimson barked. "This may be a crime scene."

The man backed out, aghast, hands raised in apology. Crimson kicked the door shut in his face. He turned back to the room, stepping farther inside as a hundred thoughts fought for the full attention of his mind. Why stay under a false name? Or had the name he'd known been the false one? Had she left in haste? Fled from her brother? Perhaps he'd taken her. Perhaps he'd packed her belongings while she waited, bound and gagged, in a carriage in the alley below.

Crimson recognized this last as pure fantasy on his part. The overactive imagination of a man who'd seen more horror in his twenty-five years than most would see in a lifetime. Yet he also knew what people were capable of.

He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath through his nose and let it out through the mouth. Theoretically this cleared the mind, gave one the ability to see things as they were. Henry Goddard said so, anyway. Crimson felt daft, but when he opened his eyes he found the technique had worked.

The room was not, in fact, empty. When he'd kicked the door closed, something had moved. A length of cloth, black and shiny, hanging from a peg on the inside. Malena's silk scarf. The accessory had been black when he first saw it, then she'd changed it for a blue one but claimed to have done no such thing. Here, now, hanging in space against the white-painted door, it seemed to announce itself like a bold challenge.

And suddenly John Crimson felt a weight. A physical burden, wrapped in a piece of paper and stuffed into his pocket. A knot of dread twisted in his stomach as he removed the yellow square and unfolded it carefully. Inside, the single strand of blue silk waited like a serpent. Blue! It had been black when he'd taken it from Goddard's window. His throat went dry as he picked up the thread. He lifted it, and lifted his eyes at the same time, to the cloth hanging from the door. The black scarf, now blue.

Transformed, somehow. Impossibly. Supernaturally.

Crimson shook his head. He felt like the butt of a joke. Some prank being pulled on the school yard. This was no innocent jest, though. A home had been robbed. Malena had used him to get to Goddard. She'd . . . she must have sought something. Heard something during that dinner. But what? And why leave this bizarre, almost magical, clue?

Of one thing he felt sure. This was a challenge, somehow. A test. He vowed, then and there, to pass it.

Blue cloth in hand, he fled the room and raced to Goddard's home.

* * * * *

Crimson found his superior much as he had two days prior: standing in the hallway, staring into the invaded study.

Only this time the superintendent's face brightened at the sight of his inspector. "I've cracked it, John," he said.

"I . . . you have?" he asked, the scarf temporarily forgotten.

"Something
was
stolen. A single piece of paper, no wonder I'd missed it."

"What piece of paper?"

Henry Goddard looked at him. "Sleeman's letter, of all things. I don't understand why. It contained only the logistics of my visit. Still . . . what's wrong, John?"

Crimson had turned to look at the room, as if it might now divulge some explanation. It did not, not exactly. But tidied now, everything back where it had been before the robbery, Crimson noticed something that had slipped attention before. "The globe, sir," he said.

"What about it?"

"Did you move it while cleaning in here? Bump into it, perhaps?"

"No. Why?"

He and Goddard walked together to the ornate sphere.

The world had been angled so that India would be front and center in the magnifying glass, a single red pin pressed into the surface to mark Sleeman's base of operations in Jubbulpore. Crimson had noted this marker months ago, even discussed it with Goddard. It served both as a reminder of the coming visit to that place, and a talisman through which Goddard hoped to channel some of Sleeman's investigative ideas.