Текст книги "The Counterfeit Lady"

Автор книги: Kate Parker

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PRAISE FOR

THE VANISHING THIEF

“An engaging heroine . . . and a story that will keep you turning pages until you reach the end.”

–Emily Brightwell, national bestselling author of the Mrs. Jeffries Mysteries

“A delightful adventure in Victorian England with the motley crew that is the Archivist Society—a group dedicated to obtaining justice when all else fails.”

–Victoria Thompson, national bestselling author of the Gaslight Mysteries

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kate Parker

THE VANISHING THIEF

THE COUNTERFEIT LADY

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

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A Penguin Random House Company

Copyright © 2014 by Kate Parker.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61740-3

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Parker, Kate, 1949–

The counterfeit lady / Kate Parker.—Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition. pages cm

ISBN 978-0-425-26661-8 (paperback)

1. Women booksellers—Fiction. 2. Booksellers and bookselling—Fiction.3. Women private investigators—Fiction. 4. Cold cases (Criminal investigation)—Fiction. 5. London (England)—Fiction. 6. Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837–1901—Fiction. I. Title.PS3616.A74525C68 2014

813'6—dc23

2014005613

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / August 2014

Cover illustration by Teresa Fasolino.

Cover design by George Long.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

To John,

because you’ve always been there.

CONTENTS

Praise for The Vanishing Thief

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Kate Parker

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A special thanks to my brother, William Henck, whose timely comments about the naval arms race of the 1890s provided the background to this story. Thanks also to my daughter, Jennifer, who doesn’t mind revisiting historic spots in London or making a quick trip on BritRail to do research as long as there’s time for the theater.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank the people who helped me polish both this book and my craft. Hannah Meredith, the Ruby Slippered Sisterhood, the Pixie Chicks, and the HCRW all deserve a big thanks. My agent, Jill Marsal of Marsal Lyons Literary Agency, had important suggestions to improve this work, as did my editor, Faith Black. The cover artists and copyeditors at Berkley Prime Crime brought their special skills to the book and made it the best it can be.

And a thank-you to Ken Gates, who handed me a newspaper article on the RWA National Conference and told me to join them if I wanted to learn to write. That was many years ago, but the conversation ultimately led to the Victorian Bookshop Mysteries. The thought and the advice were appreciated.

While this story is based on the current events of the time period, I’ve reimagined those events as if they were acted out by my characters. Any errors not in the service of the story are mine.

CHAPTER ONE

"I need you.”

I looked across the width of the shop counter at the Duke of Blackford and all the blood left my head. Pressing my fingers into the wood, I gaped at him as his words echoed in my brain.

I never expected to hear him say anything like that to me, Georgia Fenchurch, a middle-class bookshop owner. Never mind the fevered dreams I had about the duke. Broad shoulders, the fragrance of pristine linen and smoke, and a smile reminiscent of his pirate-raider ancestors haunted my nights. Left speechless, I gazed into his mesmerizing dark eyes. I hadn’t seen him since spring, but I’d thought of him often.

Then he added, “Miss Fenchurch, Queen Victoria and our country need you,” and my lovely daydream of sitting across the breakfast table from those dark eyes rose into the steam that encircled London thanks to a merciless heat wave.

“Perhaps we should go into my office.” I nodded to my assistant, Emma Keyes, who was helping a customer, and walked out from behind the counter.

We entered my small office in the back of the shop, stuffy now with the unbearable weather, and the duke immediately headed for the window overlooking the alley. Before I could tell him the window was stuck, he had it open several inches and had turned to face me. “Is it safe to speak here?”

“I assure you, no one ever lurks in that alley. The jeweler next door suffers from paranoia.” None of the papers stacked by the window were ruffled by the stagnant air. I shifted the books piled on both chairs over to the desk and then sat.

“We’ll keep our voices down, if you don’t mind.” Blackford pulled his chair close to mine and lowered himself so our knees collided. “I do beg your pardon.”

“Unavoidable if we’re going to keep our voices down.” The contact was sending little trembles of excitement through my body.

“There’s been a murder and theft that has repercussions on the security of the realm. Georgia, we need your help and the help of the Archivist Society.” He looked straight into my eyes with unflappable seriousness. Banging into my knees obviously hadn’t flustered him.

At least he chose to call me by my first name. Did he remember our first investigation together as fondly as I did?

“Why didn’t you go straight to Sir Broderick? He leads the Archivist Society.”

“Because ultimately it’s your help, and that of your lodger, that we need.”

My lodger? What in the—? “I don’t have a lodger.”

“Lady Phyllida Monthalf.”

“Aunt Phyllida? She’s not my lodger.” She was an integral part of my life. We were closer than many families.

“Aunt? That’s even better. Then you’re a relative, too.”

“You’re not making any sense.” That wasn’t unusual for the duke, at least on the few occasions we’d met, but I’d never known him to make a mistake on facts. “I have no relatives.”

“You’re not making any sense, Georgia.”

“‘Aunt’ is an honorary title. Lady Monthalf saved my life on one of my first investigations. Her brother had kept her in appalling circumstances for years. When he was arrested for murder and the ghouls on Fleet Street began to circle, I brought her home to live with me.”

“I was acquainted with the gossip at the time.” The duke could sound appallingly stuffy about the misdeeds of the aristocracy.

“The truth was worse than the rumors. I know. I was there.” It was one of the Archivist Society’s first cases. I wasn’t yet twenty at the time, but I’d carry visions of that day to my deathbed. In my mind, Lord Monthalf again stood blocking the kitchen door through which I’d planned to escape with his latest victim, a battered prostitute named Annie. Only Phyllida’s strike with a cast-iron skillet saved us from death by Lord Monthalf’s knife.

I shook away the image and wondered what new investigation Blackford wanted our help with. And timid Phyllida’s help, who’d never aided in Archivist Society cases.

“Tragedy has struck the family again. Lady Monthalf’s cousin Clara Gattenger has been murdered.”

Despite his bloodless announcement, I realized my jaw had dropped. I snapped it shut before I expressed my dismay. “This is terrible. When? What happened? Does Phyllida know?”

“Last evening. And no, no one has been in touch with Lady Monthalf.”

“Then we must tell her immediately.”

I started to rise, but he waved me back into my chair. “Georgia, wait. Hear me out.”

Settling myself in my chair, I stared at him. “Go on.”

“Yesterday evening, raised voices and crashes were heard coming from the locked study by the Gattenger servants. Finally, after a minute or two of silence, Kenneth Gattenger came out and shouted for someone to fetch a doctor and the police. The police found Clara Gattenger dead in the study. There were no signs of a break-in. Her husband’s been arrested and is currently in Newgate Prison.”

“A sad tale, but not one requiring the help of the Archivist Society.” I waited for the rest of the story. Knowing Blackford, there had to be more.

“Do you know the name Gattenger?”

“It’s Clara Gattenger’s surname, and her husband Kenneth’s. Other than that, it means nothing to me.”

“Kenneth Gattenger is single-handedly keeping Britain in the position of the world’s premier sea power. The man is the most brilliant naval architect of our times. His designs are visionary. He—”

I shook my head slightly. This wasn’t telling me anything useful.

“Perhaps this will make the situation clear. He’s designed a new warship. This new ship will ensure our naval superiority for years. Every other seafaring nation wants to know the design’s secrets.” He leaned forward, pinning me in my chair with his intense stare. “The plans disappeared from his study last evening.”

“Surely they weren’t the only copy.” I still didn’t understand what this had to do with poor Clara’s murder.

“No, but they represent a radical new concept, and if a set fell into the wrong hands . . .”

“Germany.” Our rivalry with Germany was in all the papers. I understood this much.

He nodded. “The race would be on. Whoever builds the design first wins. The balance of power could be irrevocably changed.”

“So if someone stole the design, why is Kenneth Gattenger in prison for killing Clara?”

“There was a fire in the fireplace while this argument took place and no sign of forced entry. There were only two people behind that locked study door. Gattenger could have burned a set of plans in the minutes between the end of the sounds of the scuffle and when he unlocked the door.”

“You want the Archivist Society to discover his guilt or innocence.” Blackford should have taken the case to Sir Broderick. However, I was glad he was here. I’d forgotten how commanding his voice could be, even when pitched to a murmur.

“We need to find out what happened to the plans in Gattenger’s study. The entire fate of England rests on recovering them if Gattenger is innocent.” He leaned back in his chair and made a sweeping gesture. “If he didn’t kill his wife and burn them himself.”

I didn’t believe the fate of England hung in the balance. The Admiralty and Whitehall could make a crisis out of misplacing a shopping list. “How are you involved, Your Grace?”

“I have”—he studied my face for a moment—“contacts in many countries. They have proved useful to Her Majesty on occasion, and so I’ve been called in again.”

“Do they know you’re involving the Archivist Society?”

“Not yet. It all depends on your aunt, Phyllida.”

“Why?”

“Let’s talk to her, and all will become clear.”

I doubted that very much. The duke always held something back.

Nevertheless, I rose from my chair, being careful not to rub knees with him, and walked back into the bookshop. It was nearly one, and the shop was empty. “Put up the Closed sign, Emma. We need to go to the flat. His Grace has some bad news for Aunt Phyllida.”

Emma looked from me to the duke and bit back whatever remark she was on the verge of making. She put up the sign, we put on our hats and gloves, and I locked up the shop as we left.

The sun blistered the sidewalk and put everyone who dared go out in a foul mood. In the short time it took to reach our building, my back was drenched and I needed a cooling drink. We went up to our flat and let ourselves in. Phyllida called out from the kitchen, “Are you here already? Luncheon’s not quite finished.”

“Please come here, Aunt Phyllida. We have some news,” I replied.

She came out into the hall, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her hair wildly escaping its knot, and an apron protecting her frock.

“Lady Phyllida Monthalf, may I present—” I began.

Aunt Phyllida was already in a deep curtsy. “Georgia, I know who this is. He favors his father. Please come in, Duke. This is a great pleasure.”

The duke bowed and kissed her hand. “The pleasure is mine, Lady Monthalf. I wish I didn’t have to come bearing bad news.”

Phyllida paled. “What has happened?”

I put an arm around her and led her forward. “Perhaps we’d better take this conversation into the parlor.”

We all sat down on ruffled, floral-print-covered chairs. Phyllida unrolled her sleeves, her eyes never leaving Blackford’s face. Emma glanced at me, looking for signs of what I knew about the bad news.

The duke cleared his throat and said, “I bring bad news concerning your cousin Clara Gattenger.”

Phyllida twisted her fingers. “My cousin Isabel’s daughter? She’s been so happy since she married Kenny.” She looked from one face to another as she bit her lip. “What has happened?”

“Mrs. Gattenger was murdered in her home last night.”

Phyllida half rose and then sank back down. “No. Not Clara. Not poor, dear Clara. Have they caught her killer?”

“Her husband is in Newgate Prison for her murder,” Blackford said.

“No. That’s wrong. They were very happy.” She reached over and grabbed my arm. “Georgia, can’t you do something? Kenny would never have murdered Clara.”

“Are you sure, Phyllida?” I asked.

“Yes. Quite certain.” She rose and walked over to the open window overlooking the street. The lace curtains hung limply across the space without a breeze to stir them. “Do something, I beg of you. She was Isabel’s only child. Her killer must be punished. And that isn’t Kenny.”

“How far will you go to see her killer apprehended, Lady Monthalf?” Blackford asked. He rose and walked over to her.

She stared up into his face, her jaw set. “As far as necessary.”

“Are you willing to face aristocratic society again, to answer their questions, to put up with their gossip?” When his sharp voice silenced, his mouth slid into a cruel smile.

Phyllida stared into his eyes and for a moment I thought she would burst into tears. Slowly, she steadied herself and finally replied, “Whatever it takes to find Clara’s killer and free Kenny.”

His smile grew joyful. “I knew I could count on you, Lady Monthalf. On behalf of the queen, thank you.”

I could see only one way to proceed. “Then I think we need to send a message to Sir Broderick to set up a meeting of the Archivist Society tonight. You’ll attend, Your Grace?”

He nodded. “I’ll speak to Sir Broderick now, if you ladies will excuse me.”

Emma and I stood. He bowed to Phyllida and Emma, who curtsied, and then he took my arm to escort him to the door. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon. In one regard, I’m glad this has happened.”

He was glad! In response, my heart whistled a merry tune and my soul kicked up its heels. We stared, facing each other by the door, no longer touching but with an intimacy that had me leaning forward on the balls of my feet. His dark eyes smiled before he picked up his top hat and cane from the table by the door.

As he moved into the hallway, I said, “I’m glad you came to us. Aunt Phyllida seems set on seeing justice for her cousin, and apparently the police have the wrong man. Emma and I want to help her.” Knowing the duke could open many doors the rest of us couldn’t, I asked, “May I see the study where the attack took place? The servants wouldn’t have been allowed to clean it up yet, surely.”

“I’ll arrange it for this afternoon. I’ll pick you up at the bookshop.” He nodded to me and strode off.

I went back into the flat to find Emma and Phyllida putting luncheon on the table. “I’m afraid it’s just”—Phyllida stopped to see what she’d set on the platter she carried—“cold poultry and salad.”

The platter landed on the table with a thump. “Oh, Georgia, Emma. I’m so upset I don’t even know what I’m serving.” Her breath caught on a shudder. “Poor Clara.”

“I’m so sorry, Phyllida.” I gave her a hug and then stepped back so Emma could do the same. After we sat at the table and said grace, I said, “I’ve heard you speak of Clara many times, but not her mother.”

Phyllida sighed and moved her food around on her plate with her fork. “Clara’s mother, Isabel, and I were close as children. She married an Admiralty man, Lord Watson. Once my brother, William, gained control of my money and my life, he never let me see her again. Not even when she was dying.”

She put her napkin over her mouth and shut her eyes. I studied my plate until she said, “There. I won’t be silly. It’s all in the past. But you must find out what really happened to Clara. For Isabel’s sake. It’s the only thing I can do for her now.”

I wanted to distract Phyllida from remembering her evil brother as much as I wanted some background on the victim whose death I knew I’d soon be investigating. “I only saw Clara a few times a year when she visited us on a Sunday. I thought she was sweet, but I know nothing of her background. Tell me about her.”

“She was an only child. Her parents both doted on her. After Isabel’s death, she and her father were very close, and her father’s interests were in shipbuilding. That’s how she met Kenny Gattenger. They were in love from the first time they met, but he wouldn’t marry until he had enough money to support her properly, and she wouldn’t leave her father on his own. They broke off their engagement twice, but they finally married a year ago. That was after her father’s death, when his title and property had gone to some cousin.”

“Ken Gattenger wasn’t from money?”

“No. His parents ran a small shop. He was apprenticed to a draftsman. The man realized Kenny was brilliant and made sure he received a good education. As Kenny gained more experience, he found powerful patrons. Naval architecture became his specialty. He was a hard worker and a strict saver. All those years of saving made him a little mean with money. Clara said he didn’t pay the servants well, so she was always having to hire new as soon as one found a better-paying post.”

“What kind of couple were they?” Emma asked.

“A happy one,” Phyllida snapped.

“No, I mean, were they always fighting and making up? Did they entertain a great deal, did they share interests, did they like to travel, things like that.” Emma gave her a smile.

“Oh.” Phyllida turned pink. “They were quiet. They both liked to read, to stay home together in the evening in the study. They went out to the theater or to a dinner party on occasion, but that was all. Clara was content to visit friends during the day and wait for Kenny to come home to her in the evenings.”

“Did you see her often?” I asked. “Besides those Sunday visits when she brought her husband along, did you see her alone?”

“We’d have tea once every few weeks after I came to live here, during the day while you were in the shop. She’s the only relative I wanted to see after my brother”—she shuddered—“died.”

Her brother had been hanged at Newgate Prison, where Gattenger was now. However, her brother had murdered a string of East End prostitutes and was captured by the Archivist Society.

We’d find a lack of evidence in Gattenger’s case, I feared, and that would present problems proving his innocence.

“She was very happy in her new life as a married woman,” Phyllida said.

“Did you see much of Mr. Gattenger besides on their Sunday visits?”

“No. During the week, Clara always came by herself for tea. But I saw them together several times over the years of their long engagement, and they were very happy. Happy in their own quiet little circle, even when there were other people present. Do you understand what I mean?”

“They were happy with just each other for company,” Emma said.

“It’s more than that, there’s a whole world two people can share that no one else can enter. My parents were like that,” I said. Sometimes frustrating for me as a child, but beautiful to think back on.

“Yes. That’s how they were,” Phyllida said.

“Last night, the servants heard shouting in the study. When the door was unlocked, Clara Gattenger was dead.” I looked at Phyllida. “Are you sure everything was all right between them?”

“Yes. I know evil. I lived with my brother long enough. Evil had never entered their home. They were in love.”

Glancing at my plate, I found I’d finished my luncheon. I never tasted a bite.

*   *   *

THE DUKE OF Blackford returned to the shop in the middle of the afternoon to tell us what time to be at Sir Broderick’s and to escort me to the Gattenger house. Even with a hand up, I still had to struggle to get into the tall, ancient carriage given to the duke’s family by Wellington. Glancing out the window, I saw Emma in the bookshop doorway, grinning at my lack of grace. I looked forward to seeing the scene of the crime, but I would rather the duke had used one of his normal-sized carriages.

The Gattenger home was one of a row of similar houses in a fairly new, middle-class section of South Kensington. Once the duke caught me around the waist as I half tumbled from the carriage and set me safely on the sidewalk, he walked up the steps and rang the front doorbell. I straightened my skirt to give myself a moment to recover from the ridiculous flutter in my chest from his touch. I glanced down the steep concrete steps behind the black wrought-iron railing and caught a glimpse of a young woman’s face looking at me before she drew back from the tradesmen’s entrance.

The front door opened and I saw Inspector Grantham standing in the hallway. I hurried up the steps as the men exchanged bows and followed the duke inside.

“Inspector Grantham, is this your case?” I asked.

“Yes, Miss Fenchurch. I suppose I’ll be working with the Archivist Society again?” He sounded weary. I hoped it wasn’t due to working with us.

“Yes. Phyllida Monthalf, my friend, is the murdered woman’s cousin. She says the husband couldn’t have killed his wife.”

“It gave me no joy charging him. The navy has already involved itself in this case because of his importance to British ship design.” He looked at Blackford. “I suppose that’s why you’re interested. But there’s no evidence supporting his story.” The inspector spread his hands in the air.

“May we look at the room where the death occurred?” I gave Grantham a hopeful smile.

The inspector held my gaze for a moment before shrugging. “If you think you can find something we missed, go right ahead.”

Detective Inspector Grantham had worked several cases over the years for Scotland Yard that the Archivist Society was interested in, including the one last spring where I had first met the Duke of Blackford. I knew he trusted our abilities. Whether he liked working with us was another story.

The duke led the way down the wide hallway, past the staircase going up and a narrower one going down. I followed until we reached a door near the back of the house. The duke stopped and let the inspector open it. I was the last to enter the small study, making it a little crowded as we moved around. None of us stepped near the fireplace with the bloodied hearth rug.

The duke strolled to the triple bay window facing the garden. With the heat, only the lace curtains were across the open windows, while the heavy dark blue drapes were pushed back to the ends of their rods. “Were these windows open when you arrived?”

“Yes. With the dryness of the weather, there were no footprints outside, and the climb wouldn’t have been difficult for an agile man. The cook says she was in the kitchen, which is by the tradesmen’s entrance in the front under the dining room. The maids were clearing away dinner. You saw where the stairs are, and the first door we passed in the hallway leads to the dining room. There was no reason for the servants to come this far toward the back of the house,” Inspector Grantham said.

“There’re no back stairs?” the duke asked.

The inspector and I stared at each other in surprise for an instant before we must have had the same thought. He’s a duke. “Not enough room in a house this size,” I said. “There’re only the three servants? The cook and two maids?”

“Yes,” Grantham answered. “One of the maids heard the argument and stopped to listen. Her excuse was the master and missus rarely argued. The other came to find her after a minute and heard the end of the argument and the crashes. There were two loud noises.”

“Could the servants make out what was said?” Blackford asked.

“They said no.”

“Did they try to open the door or knock?”

“It was locked.”

“How long before the door—” I began.

“A full minute at the very least,” Grantham said as if the words hurt his mouth.

I took in the room without moving. There were two comfortable chairs with ottomans, one on each side of the fireplace. Gaslights were set to shine down on those two spots, and a small table by each chair held a stack of books. Shelves across the room from the fireplace held a large collection of volumes. A desk was set by the window to catch the best light. A jumble of papers, pens, ink pots, books, a diary, and a paperweight were scattered across the floor from the desk toward the fireplace, and the desk chair was knocked over in that direction. The fireplace held a pile of ash.

“Where were the plans kept?” the duke asked.

“In there.” Inspector Grantham pointed to a low chest with three drawers across the room from the windows and close by the door.

“I was told there was a burned fragment of a drawing found in this room. Where is it?” The duke stood facing the inspector with his arms crossed.

Grantham stared back, his jaw jutting aggressively. “Locked up by Scotland Yard until the trial.”

If they continued to act like schoolboys, I’d never learn anything. “What fragment?”

“A small singed piece of the last page of the missing blueprints was found at the edge of the fireplace.”

I needed to know more. “How many pages are there in one set of plans?”

“In this case, seven. It’s the master from which working drawings are made for the manufacturing process.”

“Are they large?”

Grantham held his arms wide. “When unfolded, each is this big.”

“Is this the only master set of drawings in existence?”

“No, but the other sets are locked up in the Admiralty.”

“Why wasn’t this one?”

“Gattenger said he had an idea that he needed to work on. He sometimes worked from home.”

“In this room? At night?”

I had both men’s attention now. “Yes,” the inspector said.

“This was also the room where he and his wife frequently read in the evening.”

“Yes.”

“So from the outside, last night wouldn’t have looked any different from any other night. But the thief chose last night to strike.” I looked from one man to the other. “If the Germans stole the drawings, there would have to be a leak in the office where the drawings are kept. Someone would have had to tell the burglar that Gattenger took a set of ship plans home last night. The only way that could happen is if there’s a traitor in the Admiralty.”