Текст книги "The Counterfeit Lady"

Автор книги: Kate Parker

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CHAPTER THREE

"GEORGIA, we wouldn’t expect you to close your shop. Frances Atterby and some of the other Archivist Society members can run the shop for you. Frances has certainly helped you out enough that she knows how the shop should be managed,” Sir Broderick said. “And you’ll be there part of the time. Frances can handle a few hours without you.”

“Frances? What about Emma? She’s always in charge when I have to be out.” I caught the look between Sir Broderick and the duke. Had they discussed this before our meeting?

Of course they had, which only made me angrier. I pushed my hands down against the atmosphere building in the room as I said, “No. As much as I trust you, Frances, running a bookshop for days is a big responsibility.”

“Emma will be working closely with you on this investigation. You’ll both be away days. Weeks. As long as it takes,” Blackford said.

Frances’s eyes widened at his words. Sir Broderick cleared his throat when he saw the look on my face.

How dare the duke make that determination? I was steaming from the heat in the room and from my temper. “As long as it takes? No. There’s more than just looking at the price and selling off the shelves. There’s ordering, bookkeeping, unpacking stock, paying bills. Frances has never done any of that, and she’s never handled antiquarian stock. No, I won’t—”

“But I have.” Sir Broderick’s voice cut through my argument. “You can do the ordering, the bookkeeping, the paying, and what you don’t have time for, I can do from here. I do know a crown-octavo edition from a red-cloth-cover edition, and I’m aware of the discounts the publishers should give you. I’m no novice to the business.”

All that was true, but there was something he couldn’t do. I took a deep breath before I said, “And the antiquarian business? Excuse me, Sir Broderick, but you can’t pop down to the store every time we have a customer for an old book.”

He smacked the armrests of his wheelchair and looked away. The only sound in the room was the crackle from the fireplace. I could have cried in shame for bringing up his affliction, especially since he’d sustained his injury in helping me attempt to rescue my parents.

He’d been in partnership with my father in the bookshop, viewing it as an investment where he could indulge his passion for antiquarian books. I ran to him when I escaped the madman who had held my parents hostage over the matter of a Gutenberg Bible we didn’t possess.

Arriving ahead of the police, we saw the cottage where my parents had been taken burst into flame. We entered, trying to save them from the inferno. A roof beam collapsed on Sir Broderick.

My lengthy struggle to drag Sir Broderick to safety meant the house collapsed before I could reenter and release my parents. My failure as a seventeen-year-old girl left Sir Broderick crippled and my parents dead. As angry as I was at myself, I was angrier at the duke for forcing me to point out Sir Broderick’s life-altering injury.

“I could pop over and bring the book to Sir Broderick, and he could send me back with instructions.” Jacob, Sir Broderick’s assistant, glanced from Sir Broderick to me.

“How would you know to ‘pop over’? Sir Broderick can’t do without you all day.” Only Blackford could create such a disaster and then sit listening to us with an expressionless face.

“Use the telephone.” Jacob pointed to the shiny black object now sitting on Sir Broderick’s specially designed desk.

“I don’t have one in the shop.”

“I’ll put in the order in the morning,” the duke said.

“It takes weeks—”

“I’m a director of the company. It won’t take weeks.” Blackford permitted me to see a brief smile. Smug cad. He appeared to be enjoying the trouble he’d started.

“This is going to cost a lot of money. Where are Phyllida and I going to stay while we’re playing our roles? We’ll need new clothes. And servants. We don’t have time to set this up properly.” Even as I gave the reasons why this plan of the duke’s wouldn’t work, I felt defeat looming above me.

“Lady Phyllida and I will set up the house and begin ordering the clothes. My housekeeper will arrange for your servants. Miss Keyes”—the duke turned to Emma—“it would help us immensely if you’d play lady’s maid to Lady Phyllida and Lady Georgina. That way you’ll be present to run messages and can question servants without arousing suspicion.”

“Do lady’s maids carry knives?” Emma asked.

“This one will,” Blackford assured her.

“Shouldn’t Emma play the aristocrat and I play the lady’s maid?” Despite her childhood in the East End, Emma was a beautiful blonde who had every man she met groveling at her feet. My looks let me fade into the background, like a good maid should.

“Only a scullery maid would have your unruly mass of auburn hair,” Emma said with a grin, and I immediately reached up to see how much my hairdo had slipped in the humidity despite a fistful of pins.

“Won’t the aristocracy we’ve dealt with in previous cases recognize me?” Not too long before, I had acted the part of Lady Westover’s country cousin and met the duke. Besides my curly reddish hair, I had freckles, violet eyes, and a long, graceful neck. The combination made my looks stand out in London society.

“Lady Westover is in the country with the Dutton-Cox family trying to nurse Lady Dutton-Cox back to health. Lord Waxpool is failing, and his family is staying close by his side, also in the country. Daisy Hancock is in France with her mother’s family. Lord Naylard is on the racing circuit, and his sister never goes out in society. The Mervilles are at their country estate. Most of society has left London. You have nothing to fear,” Blackford assured me.

I glanced at Sir Broderick. “You can’t think of anyone I’d meet in the course of this investigation who would know my association with the Archivist Society?”

Sir Broderick shook his head.

“There’s no one.” Blackford looked at me in satisfaction. “I plan to immediately and publicly take the widowed Georgina as my paramour, ensuring her inclusion in all invitations, and smooth the way for Lady Phyllida to also receive invitations from biddies who want to press her for gossip.”

I jumped off the sofa. “And I suppose this widowed Georgina is my role?”

“I don’t want to use your real name. Georgina is close enough we won’t make a mistake, and it sounds more regal.” The duke looked up at me, and I could see laughter in his eyes. Eyes I could have cheerfully scratched out.

“Paramour? Publicly?” I remained standing, glaring down at him. The philistine remained seated in the presence of a lady. Well, me, but he should have stood. He was showing bad manners, and Blackford never showed bad manners.

“Miss Emma is a young lady. You, on the other hand, are a mature woman. Easily passed off as a widow. One more likely to tempt a duke. And the ‘publicly’ part just calls for a bit of flirtation, some hand holding, a few glances where you don’t look like you’re measuring me for a coffin.”

Mature woman? “You might stand when you address me.” My words sizzled when they passed my lips.

The duke rose, lifted one ungloved hand, and trapped my chin on top of his forefinger. “Ah, Georgia. Now you begin to sound like an aristocrat. You’re the one best suited to play this role. Britain’s mastery of the seas and our safety as a nation are at stake. We can recapture those plans and keep your bookshop running, but only if you trust me.”

I thought about jerking my head back so I could bite his forefinger. “Mature woman?”

“A youngster fresh out of the schoolroom is hardly going to tempt me. A woman with some substance is much more alluring.” His eyes glowed with lust.

“Paramour?” I raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t buying his act.

He took a deep breath. The glow left his eyes and his tone became businesslike again. “Easily faked. People see what they expect to see, if you can refrain from looking daggers at me.”

“I hope I’m that good an actress.”

Someone in the room snorted.

“Are you on board with this plan, Georgia?” Sir Broderick asked.

“I don’t seem to have a choice.” I sat down and glared at Blackford. Only then did the duke resume sitting, his legs crossed at the knee, a faint smirk on his lips.

“Wise girl. Get everything in order in the bookshop. Bring me any paperwork or bookkeeping that you need me to help with after work tomorrow. As soon as possible during the day, you and Emma need to take off at different times for fittings for new wardrobes. Madame Leclerc can be speedy and discreet with the right amount of incentive.” Sir Broderick nodded as he ticked off his instructions.

“Cash being her incentive?” I asked and glanced at the duke.

“Of course. Lady Phyllida, if you would assist me in selecting the most appropriate property, I’ll escort you to your fitting.” Blackford nodded to her in a sort of seated bow.

“You realize I’m doing this not for Britain but for justice for Clara,” Phyllida said, staring at the duke.

“I am, too,” I told her, taking her hand. Not precisely for Clara but for Phyllida and those few in her family who treated her decently.

“Your nation and your sovereign appreciate it, no matter what reason you have for helping us,” Blackford said to Phyllida.

“You speak for all of Britain and the queen now, Your Grace?” My feelings were hurt by how the duke used Sir Broderick to force me into playing my part in his plan. A part that would keep me out of my bookshop far too much.

“Yes.”

And they’d been so busy pushing me into my role that they’d overlooked Ken Gattenger’s part. “I think we’re missing a part of this investigation.”

“What are we missing?”

“If we’re right about the plans being stolen from the Gattengers’ house on the only night they’d have been available, the baron has bought the loyalty of someone in the Admiralty office where the drawings are kept. We need someone in that office to find out which clerk told the burglar, or the Germans, when to break into the Gattengers’ house.”

Emma said, “It has to be a young male. The best choice would be Jacob, but he’ll be running messages between us and Sir Broderick concerning this investigation, and antiquarian books between Sir Broderick and the bookshop.”

“Sumner can take on that function. Unless you have a better answer, Your Grace,” I said. John Sumner served as the duke’s bodyguard, but I’d never figured out if the former soldier had other duties. I only knew how much the duke trusted and relied on him.

Blackford scowled for a moment before he nodded. “I don’t. I’ll see about making the arrangements to add Jacob to the Admiralty records office staff in the morning.”

I gave him a satisfied smile. Now I wasn’t the only one whose life would be turned upside down by this investigation.

“I recently had a woman who’d nursed her invalid husband approach me for a position. We’ll investigate her and then I may take her on,” Sir Broderick said, “depending on how long Jacob will need to be absent.”

Sir Broderick eyed Jacob and shook his head. “You need to understand the burglar already killed once when he was cornered. You should only identify the clerk who’s in the payroll of the Germans and pass the information on to Inspector Grantham at Scotland Yard. Let them get the clerk to name the person who received the information.”

Jacob gave him a cocky grin. “I grew up in the East End, just like Emma. No one warns her not to follow a lead. Don’t worry about me.”

Sir Broderick slumped in his wheelchair. “Oh, but my dear boy, I do.”

*   *   *

MY ANNOYANCE AT the duke’s interference had barely lessened by the next afternoon when Blackford escorted Phyllida into the bookshop. I glanced out the windows, surprised not to see the tall, ancient Wellington coach Blackford normally used. “Where’s your usual carriage?”

“I assured His Grace I couldn’t manage the coach he brought to Sir Broderick’s last night, so he kindly brought this one today,” Phyllida said. She appeared more assured than I’d seen her before. She held her chin at that disdainful angle the aristocracy employed and she spoke up immediately, not waiting to see if anyone else spoke first.

If the duke could help Phyllida recover some confidence, I could forgive him almost anything. But if Sir Broderick and Frances damaged my business while I was involved in this investigation, everyone, including Blackford, would have to pay merry hell.

“How did your morning go?” I asked.

“Oh, Georgia, the duke has the cutest little house in Mayfair. It’s a good size for the two of us and a small staff. There’s a room in the back on the second floor for Emma as our lady’s maid that connects to the dressing room and then into a room for you, Georgia. It’ll make it easier for you two to sneak around planning and investigating without alerting the servants.”

“Mayfair.” Emma said the name of the area with a tone of wonder. “I never thought I’d be living there. Even as a lady’s maid.”

I looked around my shop in the neighborhood of Leicester Square, my middle-class shop on my middle-class street, and wrapped my arms around my waist. “Don’t get too used to living there. This investigation will be as short as I can possibly make it.”

Phyllida patted my shoulder. “Sir Broderick and Frances will take good care in assisting you with the shop.”

“I inherited the bookshop from my parents. It’s all I have left of them, and it’s the only thing that keeps me from living on the street. I’ve worked hard to keep it going. Sir Broderick and Frances know bookselling, but they don’t know my shop and my customers like I do. They don’t care like I do.” I could feel my insides twisting in anxiety.

Phyllida’s answer was to give me a hug.

“It’s kept me from returning to a life of crime in the East End. That thought should increase Sir Broderick’s commitment,” Emma said with a grin.

Emma had been a cherub-faced child who gained access to wealthy houses through upper windows for an East End burglary ring. When the group struck a house during a murder, the entire group, including Emma, was arrested for the killing and thrown in jail. The Archivist Society identified the true killer at the request of the victim’s son. Sir Broderick then used up a great number of favors to convince the judge to have Emma placed in my custody. Emma’s sass gave Phyllida a reason to smile, and the two had formed an unshakable bond.

Emma joined in the hug. “It’ll turn out all right, Georgia.”

Perhaps it was a never-ending, three-way bond. With the two of them beside me, I felt my confidence returning.

“Later this afternoon, Miss Fenchurch, you need to go to Madame Leclerc for your fitting. When you return, Miss Keyes can visit her.” Blackford’s voice punctured my fragile calm.

“I’m getting new clothes, too?” The duke had Emma’s full attention.

“Smart but out of date. A lady’s maid gets her mistress’s castoffs,” Blackford said.

“How do you know about ladies and their maids?” I asked, my eyes narrowing. I thought the duke only knew about ducal things and investing.

“Knowledge imparted to me at a very young age by my mother.” Despite his formal tone, his eyes laughed at me. He must have guessed his words sparked jealousy.

Between the rent on the furnished house we’d use and the money for our outfits, this was costing Blackford more money than I saw in a year. “You’re going to great expense for this investigation, Your Grace. Why?”

“The safety of our nation is at stake.”

“Stuff and nonsense. I repeat. Why?”

“If the Germans obtain this ship design, it will alter the balance of world power. That in turn will affect my pocketbook. That’s the answer you’re looking for, isn’t it, Miss Fenchurch? As true as it is, I am also a patriot. My great-grandfather received that coach from Wellington for valuable and heroic service. I have the family honor to maintain and a country to protect. It is my duty.” His dark eyes shot fire at me. His always-straight posture became as rigid as his jaw.

For once, I believed him.

“I’ve arranged for you to meet Ken Gattenger, Georgia. Shall we go?”

I nodded and set aside the books I’d been shelving. “Emma, you’ll be fine on your own? Phyllida, do you have any message you want me to take to him?”

Emma shrugged her answer as she looked around our empty shop.

Phyllida considered for a moment. “Tell him I know he couldn’t have killed Clara. Tell him I believe his story about the burglar. And tell him everything will be all right, since you are helping him.”

*   *   *

NEWGATE PRISON, NOW used for prisoners awaiting trial or execution, sat next to the Central Criminal Court, or the Old Bailey, as everyone in London called it. The building was a stone fortress with nothing to recommend it but its forbidding, unbreakable nature. The facade had absorbed decades of smog and now appeared as grim as its reputation.

I climbed out of the duke’s carriage and followed him through the first of many gates manned by many guards. We trailed our guide down corridors still cool with stale air left from the previous winter. A faint odor of mildew and rot seemed to come out of the stones themselves, along with eerie echoes of disembodied voices and metallic clanks.

Finally we arrived in a small room with stone floors and walls. Iron bars made up the fourth wall and covered the window high in the opposite wall. Inside was a wooden table and two chairs. A third was brought in by our guide while another guard stood by silently. An oil lantern gave off a kerosene smell along with adequate light.

Kenneth Gattenger sat slumped in the chair on the opposite side of the table, fair stubble on his cheeks matching the blond hair that fell lankly over his brow. He’d always looked boyishly handsome when I saw him with Clara. Now, instead of slender, he was thin. His most prominent feature was his red, swollen eyes.

He began to rise when I entered the room, but a barked command from the tall, burly guard standing like a pillar to one side made him drop back into his seat like a deadweight.

I glared at the guard, but he stared straight ahead, saving him from viewing my wrathful stare. Changing to a pleasant expression, I turned to Gattenger and sat down across the scarred table from him. “Lady Phyllida Monthalf sends her greetings and her assurances that as an innocent man, you can be certain everything will turn out for the best.”

He turned the saddest blue eyes that I have ever seen toward me and said, “How can it be all right? Clara is dead.”

The Duke of Blackford sat down next to me and said, “Tell us what happened that night.”

“I’ve told my story over and over, and no one believes me. What good will it do?” He buried his head in his arms on the tabletop and sobbed.

The duke shared an annoyed expression with me and then glared at the top of Gattenger’s head. “Pull yourself together, man. We’re trying to help you. We don’t believe you killed your wife.”

“It doesn’t matter. Clara’s still dead,” he mumbled from beneath his arms, but at least the sobbing seemed to have stopped.

I smacked my hand on the table. “It matters to your wife that we find the man responsible and have him face justice. What do you think she’d say if she saw you like this?”

Gattenger sat up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “You’re right. Clara deserves to have her killer punished. But I don’t know who the man is.”

I spoke quietly, not wanting to upset him again. “Just tell us what you do know of that night.”

“We went into the study as we always did after dinner. Someone, a man, was hiding behind the door. Once we stepped into the room, he shut and locked the door. He had the drawings to my newest ship design in his hand.”

He stared at his fisted hands. “I told him to give me the drawings. Clara asked him how he got in, why he was there. He said nothing; he just moved cautiously across the room toward the windows. Furious at his silence, I raised my voice. To my surprise, Clara did the same. The man just kept facing us as he edged his way toward the window. He never said a word. I decided to be a hero. What a fool I was.” With a moan, he shoved his fists into his eyes.

“And then?” If he’d keep talking, we might learn something.

“And then? I tried to stop him. I struck out at him. I grabbed hold of the blueprints in his hands. I tore one sheet. He gasped as if in fright and swung at me. I ducked and swung back. Clara shouted at both of us to stop, and then I shouted at him. His answer was to punch me in the side of the head.” He shrugged. “I don’t remember any more. The next thing I knew, I was leaning over Clara’s body, begging her not to be dead, but I knew she was.”

“Were you standing? Sitting?” the duke asked.

“Lying on the floor next to her, half sitting, holding her. Her head was bloody and her eyes stared at me. Accusing me. I failed her.”

A clank reverberated along the stone-lined hallways, making us all jump. “And then?” I pressed.

“I pulled myself to my feet, went to the door, and unlocked it. I told the maids to get a doctor and the police, but I knew it was too late.”

“Did you see the burglar or the drawings when you came around?”

“No. I thought he’d taken them until the police found part of one in the fire. I guess he burned them.”

“Why would he burn them?” the duke asked. Actually, he demanded to be told, but Gattenger didn’t appear to notice Blackford’s overbearing tone of voice.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You must be able to think of a reason. Those drawings are valuable, but they’re not the only copy.” The duke leaned across the table. “Why would anyone destroy them?”

Gattenger slammed his fists on the table. “I. Don’t. Know.” He rose halfway from his seat, glanced at the guard, and sat back down. “I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t know why someone broke into my house, killed my wife, and burned my drawings.”

“What did the man look like?” I asked.

He stared at the table and spoke in a monotone. It was as if all the air, all the life, had left him. “Thin, in his twenties, a little shorter than me.”

“Did he have any scars? Did he have a receding hairline? Did he limp when he walked toward the window?”

“No limp. No scars. I didn’t see his hairline. He wore a cap.”

“What kind of cap?”

“Just a regular workingman’s cap.”

I glanced at Blackford. He nodded slightly and I continued. “What color was his shirt?”

“Faded. Brown or gray or something.”

“Did he wear a collar?”

“With that shirt? No.”

“His trousers?”

“The same. Faded. He looked and dressed like a workman.”

I pulled a sheet of notepaper and a pencil from my bag and passed them over to Gattenger. From the corner of my eye, I was aware the guard moved. He didn’t demand the paper and pencil, so I guessed Blackford stopped him; I suspect with a ducal glare. “Can you sketch his face?”

He began immediately and in a matter of moments had drawn the outline of the man’s features.

“Why did you bring a set of plans for your new warship home with you that night?” Next to me, I felt Blackford stiffen. I kept my eyes on Gattenger, who kept working on his drawing.

“I wanted to check something.”

“What?”

“Someone had questioned one of the calculations that day, and I wanted to verify my figures.” He looked up at me. “The calculation affects several different facets of the ship, so I needed a full set of plans to check all the possibilities.”

“Was your calculation correct?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t had time to study it once I got home.”

“And why was that?” Blackford asked. “Because you and Mrs. Gattenger had an argument?”

“We didn’t have an argument.”

“We know you did. Your wife was very upset before you two went into the study that night.”

“We didn’t have an argument. She wasn’t upset.” Gattenger didn’t look up from his drawing at either of us as he spoke. He was lying.

I decided to ask what had puzzled me the most. “Why did you have a fire burning in that room on the hottest night of the year?”

“There was no fire.”

Leaning forward, I said, “I saw the ashes myself.”

He stared at me as he banged his fist on the table hard enough to make it jump. “There was no fire.”

For the first time, I doubted Phyllida. This liar sounded like a murderer.