Текст книги "The Counterfeit Lady"

Автор книги: Kate Parker

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

CHAPTER FOUR

THE sound of Ken Gattenger banging his fist on the table echoed in the small stone room. Blackford and I looked at each other, and he gave me a tiny nod. I was to make the first attempt to get the man I now saw as a possible murderer to tell us the truth.

“We know there was a fire. We know you and Clara had a fight. Tell us what happened. It’s the only way to find her killer.”

The air seemed to escape his body. “We didn’t—it wasn’t an argument. Clara was told—oh, why bother with this now? She was told I had cheated the navy. That my design was basically flawed and I’d be the laughingstock of England, if I wasn’t thrown in jail for treason. Just as she told me what she’d heard, dinner was ready. We didn’t want to discuss it in front of the servants. I told her someone had questioned an equation, and I would verify it after dinner. There was nothing to worry about. Someone had blown the story out of proportion.”

“Did she stop worrying?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I pressed on. “Could there have been another problem?”

“No.” He snapped his answer.

A woman comes back upset after talking to another woman, and the only problem was business? I was certain something else was wrong.

“Here.” He slid the drawing of his attacker across the table to me.

“This is very good. I didn’t realize you’re an artist.”

“Comes from learning drafting at a young age. You start to see everything on a grid. Even faces.”

As I put the drawing of the killer in my bag, Blackford said, “Who raised the question about the calculation?”

“Sir Henry Stanford.”

“The shipbuilder?”

Gattenger’s look at the duke said there couldn’t possibly be two Sir Henry Stanfords. “Yes.”

“Did you and Stanford discuss the problem at the Admiralty the day of the break-in?”

“Yes.”

“You and Sir Henry Stanford were together in the Admiralty records room that particular day discussing your calculations in tones that could be overheard?”

Gattenger and I gave each other a puzzled look. “I suppose,” he said.

The duke rose from his chair so quickly he nearly knocked it over. He strode to the door but stopped before the guard reached the iron-barred gate to let him out. Then he marched back and sat down again.

“Who else was in the records office?” I asked.

“The clerks who work there. No one else.”

“Did any of them comment on your discussion of this problem with the calculation, or on your removing a drawing from their files?”

“No. They were all busy. Too busy to do more than fulfill my request.” Then Gattenger leaned toward me. “You don’t think Sir Henry Stanford was behind the theft, do you? He and Clara got on well. Clara got on well with everyone.” He loosed one sob and then fought to regain control.

“How would Sir Henry know anything about your calculations? The people at the Admiralty aren’t that far along in having your battleship built, are they?” the duke asked.

“Yes, they are. The drawings have been shown to three shipbuilders with instructions to bid on the work without taking the drawings outside of the records room. That’s where Stanford saw them.”

“Who are the other two?”

The names Ken Gattenger provided, Lord Porthollow and Mr. Fogburn, must have meant something to Blackford. I had never heard them before.

“Nothing is missing from the Admiralty and no one outside the records office has made any copies,” the duke murmured. “Thank you, Gattenger. That’s all we need for now.” He stood and waited for the guard to unlock the door.

“Wait!” I said as I sprang to my feet. “What about the fire?”

“What about it?” Gattenger asked.

“Who asked for the fire to be lit in the study?”

He huffed out a breath as he stared at me. Then he lowered his eyes. “Clara. She’d not been feeling well, and she was cold.”

I didn’t believe that any more than I believed his story about Clara’s worries concerning ship design flaws. And I hated being lied to by someone I wanted to help.

Blackford snorted and walked out of the sarcophagus-like space. Afraid I’d be trapped in this impenetrable fortress, I said good-bye to the prisoner.

He grabbed my hands and said, “This is all my fault. I’m to blame.”

I saw the anguish in his eyes, but I also heard Blackford’s footsteps marching away from me. “Why?” came out as a demand as I pulled my hands free.

Kenny Gattenger covered his face with his hands, shook his head, and sobbed.

“Why?” I asked again, torn between the fear of missing something important and the fear of being lost in those twisting, unforgiving corridors. When he didn’t speak, I left the room and rushed down the stone-paneled hallways, trying to catch up with Blackford and anxious to be out of this prison. I was out of breath when I reached the duke and then had to struggle to keep up with his long strides. As we crossed the last gate and exchanged the prison gloom for London’s sunny, humid streets, I grabbed Blackford by the sleeve. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer until we were both in the carriage and riding away from Newgate Prison. The smell of mildew and rot stuck to my clothes and remained in my nose. The duke didn’t appear to notice anything amiss. “Stanford is in financial trouble. I didn’t think he’d turn to treason to buy his way out.”

“You think he’s the link to the German spy?”

“I know he is. And I can’t question him. You, as Georgina Monthalf, will have to learn his secrets and retrieve the plans alone.”

“Why can’t you?”

“We aren’t on speaking terms. Haven’t been for years.”

He wanted me to accomplish all this while inhabiting another woman’s skin. I’d played this type of role before, but never for so long a time as this promised to be or in such a complicated investigation. If it weren’t for Phyllida, I’d have quit that instant.

*   *   *

THE NEXT FEW days passed in a blur. When I wasn’t in the bookshop, I was constantly at Sir Broderick’s, ensuring I’d planned for every possibility. We seemed to have more customers than ever, but Frances acted as if she were born to be a shopkeeper. Our elderly patrons thought she was a joy. Our other regulars loved her. I’d have been jealous if I weren’t so busy.

The telephone was installed on the shop counter only three days after the meeting at Sir Broderick’s, setting a record in our part of town. Emma immediately called Sir Broderick’s and got Jacob. She and Frances had great fun practicing with the instrument. I knew I’d be able to measure their squeals of delight in shillings when the bill arrived.

The next afternoon, Adam Fogarty came in the shop, nodded to me, and walked toward the back. I signaled Emma to watch the shop and followed him into our office.

“We have a problem.” Fogarty paced the narrow space like a caged animal. He’d been a Metropolitan Police sergeant before an injury shortened the career he loved. Most of that career was spent outside on his feet. We’d worked together on Archivist Society investigations for nearly a dozen years, and I knew better than to even think of offering him a chair.

“Only one?” We were trying to help a man in prison who didn’t appear to want help.

“One of my sources, a desk sergeant, told me the highest levels of Scotland Yard have decided Gattenger is guilty of murder and treason and they aren’t looking any further. No one knows what kind of evidence they have, but it must be conclusive. They’re going to keep holding Gattenger, but Whitehall and the Admiralty are in charge of the investigation now, not our guys.”

“Murder and treason?” Good heavens. This was worse. Much worse, since they were adding treason.

“Yes. The whole case has landed in the steamy pits.” Fogarty picked up a book and set it down again.

“Thanks, Adam. We need to learn what the evidence is.” When the duke and I were at Newgate Prison, Gattenger had said everything was his fault. Was he guilty? Being blackmailed? Or a heartbroken and wronged man?

Fogarty stuck his head out the window and looked up and down the alley. When he pulled his head and shoulders back into the room, he said, “I met up with Inspector Grantham. He told me the case had been taken off his hands and placed with someone senior. He doesn’t know what the evidence is, but he believes it’s enough to hang Gattenger.”

He marched to the doorway and back. “I’ll see what I can find out from my sources in the police force, but they’re all too low level to know anything if Grantham doesn’t. I think we’ll need the duke to talk to Whitehall. Ask him, Georgia.”

“I will. Whether he decides to share that information is another question.”

“He needs to understand he isn’t the only one working on finding those warship plans.” Fogarty limped out of the office and waved good-bye to Emma, jingling the bell over the door as he left.

I walked to the counter and looked at the new contraption that had invaded my shop. “Emma, could you show me how to call the duke on this thing?”

“Gladly.” She walked over, gave me a superior smile, and picked up the narrow black tube. Lifting the earpiece off its cradle, she waited, then said, “Operator, I’d like to speak to the Duke of Blackford’s residence.”

A moment later, she handed me the instrument, and I found myself listening to the ghostly voice of Stevens, Blackford’s butler. I nearly dropped the telephone before I was able to reply.

Shortly after I asked Blackford to find out what evidence Scotland Yard and Whitehall had found against Gattenger, the afternoon post arrived. On top was a letter with South African stamps. I grabbed the letter opener and dispatched the envelope with one savage stroke.

The letter inside bore more information than I’d expected. “Emma, how do I call Sir Broderick?”

By the time he came on the line, I was clutching the black candlestick device with a stranglehold. “I heard from Mr. Shaw, the antiquarian dealer in Cape Town you recommended, Sir Broderick. A man who fits the description of my parents’ killer has recently been in Cape Town searching for a copy of the Gutenberg Bible. He apparently didn’t find what he wanted and has returned to Europe by ship.”

“You don’t need to shout, Georgia. The telephone works well. Does Shaw have a name for this man?”

I lowered my voice. “He called himself Mr. Wolf, but Mr. Shaw thinks it was a false name.”

“What else did Shaw say?”

“The story seems a bit confused, but this Mr. Wolf apparently decided an antiquarian collector named Vanderhoff had Wolf’s stolen Gutenberg Bible. Wolf clubbed Vanderhoff over the head and tore the man’s house apart, but didn’t find the book. By the time the police arrived, Wolf was gone. In fact, he sailed that night for Europe with some of Vanderhoff’s correspondence.”

There was a long pause over the line. Then Sir Broderick’s voice came back loudly and I pulled the small black speaker away from my ear. “Did these letters mention the Gutenberg Bible?”

“Shaw writes that he thinks they must have. Wolf called on Shaw once asking whether he’d seen Vanderhoff with the Gutenberg. At that time, Wolf told Shaw he intends to find his stolen Bible and reclaim it, and no one should stand in his way.”

“Tearing the house apart and attacking Vanderhoff sounds like the violence used by your parents’ killer. But Vanderhoff wasn’t killed?”

“No. He was knocked senseless and still hadn’t regained consciousness two days later when Mr. Shaw wrote.”

“At least this time he didn’t kill his victim, although it sounds like he may yet succeed. And you now have a name for the murderer.”

“I have more than that.” I could barely contain my excitement. “The only passenger ship leaving Cape Town that night sailed for Southampton. There’s a good chance this Mr. Wolf is here in England. I need to drop out of our current investigation and search for him.”

“No.” Sir Broderick’s voice boomed down the wire. “You will not let everyone, including Lady Phyllida, down.” Softening his tone, he said, “We’ll pick up his trail once this is over. I’ll help you, and I have contacts that can help you.”

“But—”

“No buts, young lady. Your parents wouldn’t approve of you letting your friends down. You’ve waited a dozen years. You can wait a little longer.”

The line went dead.

I set the telephone down with a crash. I didn’t want to wait any longer. The investigation to find and capture my parents’ murderer had hit too many brick walls over time. This was our first lucky break since I’d seen him a few months before.

Unfortunately, Sir Broderick was right. I couldn’t let Phyllida or the Archivist Society down. And I was looking forward to working with Blackford again.

*   *   *

THE NEXT MORNING, a neatly dressed man with silver cuff links to match his silver-headed cane walked into the bookshop and peered around nearsightedly. “Miss Fenchurch?”

I stepped forward to wait on him. “Yes. May I help you?”

“Georgia Fenchurch?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sir Jonah Denby. My office in Whitehall is investigating the stolen warship blueprints, and I understand you’re helping uncover the circumstances of their disappearance.”

“Where did you hear that?”

His green eyes bore into mine. “There’s no reason to be alarmed. The Duke of Blackford mentioned it. Do you have any information for us yet?”

I drew him back to my office in case anyone should come into the shop. “Gattenger caught a thief stealing the blueprints from his study. He drew a picture of the man, which we’re showing to Scotland Yard. Do you have any information you can share with us?”

“Regrettably, not yet.”

“But Scotland Yard says Whitehall has proof of Gattenger’s guilt. What proof?” I didn’t attempt to hide the demand in my tone.

When he smiled, the wrinkles on his weathered face deepened. “I can’t tell you at this time. I’m sure I’ll be speaking to you soon. Good day, Miss Fenchurch.”

Setting his top hat on his silver hair, he walked out of the shop with a jaunty step.

*   *   *

A LITTLE MORE than a week after our Archivist Society meeting in Sir Broderick’s study, Phyllida came into the shop with a message from the Duke of Blackford. Emma and Frances were both helping customers look for ordinary books, and I was assisting an antiquarian collector. I excused myself and read the note while my customer examined the volume.

The duke wrote that some of our clothes from Madame Leclerc’s had arrived at the house in Mayfair. We would need to go there immediately. Phyllida and I had an invitation to attend Lord Francis’s musical evening that night. I muttered, “Tonight? And he wants us to leave immediately? He doesn’t give us much notice, does he?”

“You’ve known this day was coming for the past week. How much more time do you need?” Phyllida asked.

“Are you closing up shop and leaving?” the antiquarian customer asked.

“No. I’m going to be in and out of the shop for the next several days on—family business. I didn’t realize I’d be called to a meeting tonight.”

“Will Sir Broderick be handling your antiquarian business in your absence?” I saw a gleam in the man’s eye.

“Yes.” And it gave me no pleasure to admit that. Sir Broderick’s sympathies lay with the buyer. He had a vast, well-known book collection. I hoped this time he’d remember he was acting for the seller.

“Perhaps I’ll just finish my negotiations with him.” The man shut the book and turned to leave, still clutching the volume.

“No. I have time to finish our business.” I held out my white-cotton-gloved hand.

Blushing at his lapse in trying to leave with unpaid-for goods, he handed the book over while Phyllida said, “Georgia, he said immediately.”

“You go ahead, Aunt. Emma and I will catch up.”

She planted herself across the counter from me. “I’m the only one who knows where we’re meeting.”

“Then you’ll have to wait. Have you closed up the flat?”

“No.”

“Collect everything you think we might need tonight and then come back for us. That should give us enough time to negotiate.” I gave my customer a smile.

He reached inside his coat pocket for his wallet, his jaw raised pugnaciously. “Twenty-four, ten, and sixpence. That’s my final offer.”

Since that was ten and sixpence more than I expected, I began to wrap his purchase. At that moment, Sumner came into the shop. After a nod to me, he walked over to wait until Emma was available.

Emma and I finished with our customers at the same time, and I crossed the shop to talk to Sumner. “What’s happened?” I whispered.

“I met with Jacob at a pie shop this morning before starting time in the records room. He’s been in the Admiralty records room three days, and already he can eliminate most of his coworkers. There’s one who’s been teased about his sudden financial improvement, but he won’t say where the money came from. Makes a joke about it. Jacob is trying to pin him down, but so far he’s been cagey.

“Sir Broderick sent me over to fill you in and to ask if you need any help. I’m not to meet with Jacob again until the day after tomorrow.”

“You’ll have to come to our house in Mayfair. We’ve been summoned to begin that part of the investigation this afternoon,” I told him.

“What reason do I give for calling at a house in Mayfair?” Sumner asked.

“Play the role of my gentleman caller,” Emma said. “I think Phyllida and Georgina will be lenient employers, as long as I get my work done.”

I nodded. “Good idea.”

Emma and Sumner grinned like a couple of kids given a holiday. Even the scarred side of Sumner’s face showed a hint of a smile.

The bell over the shop door rang and, seeing Frances was busy, I went to greet our new customer. When I glanced over a few minutes later, Sumner and Emma were carrying on a hushed conversation, using hand gestures for emphasis. I couldn’t tell what they were discussing, but Emma did not look pleased.

We’d finished with our customers by the time Phyllida reappeared with a holdall. Frances wished us well and told me she could handle the rest of the day in the shop by herself. Emma took Phyllida’s bag and they walked outside. After hurried last-minute instructions to Frances, I followed them and flagged down a hire carriage that looked reputable. The inside had been swept recently and the seats weren’t torn, so we wouldn’t look out of place when we arrived in Mayfair.

The house the duke and Phyllida had chosen was on a quiet side street, its brick front measuring four windows wide on the floors above the entrance. We walked up the three front steps rising over the kitchen entrance, Emma taking the holdall. The front door was opened by a young man in livery. “Welcome, your ladyship.”

Phyllida smiled at him. “Thomas, our cousin Mrs. Monthalf has arrived. Georgina, this is our footman, Thomas. You’ll meet the rest of the staff shortly. Emma, if you’ll take the case upstairs to Mrs. Monthalf’s room. Second door on the left. I hope you’ll like it, Georgina.”

“I’m sure I will. Everything’s been a bit overwhelming since I arrived.”

“Prepare to be even more overwhelmed. We’re attending Lady Francis’s musical evening tonight, and her entertainments are always inspiring.”

All this conversation in front of the staff was a trial if you weren’t born to that world, and I wasn’t. At home, I never had to deal with cleaners and tradesmen, because Phyllida handled all that for me while I was in the bookshop. Now we’d have servants around all the time. What did the wealthy do during the day if they weren’t working, while their servants kept busy around them? “May I see the house?”

“Of course.” Phyllida took me on a guided tour of the ground floor (dining room and morning room) and the first floor (main parlor and back parlor/study), and then we climbed to the second floor. Her bedroom was next door to mine, also facing the street, but smaller. Mine had the dressing room that led to the back room where Emma would sleep. This high up, with all the bedroom doors and windows open, we were blessed with a little breeze.

“Both our rooms have sea chests,” Emma whispered, “where our clothes from Madame Leclerc’s are packed. Give me a hand in unpacking.”

We did, while Phyllida kept a watch out for any servants. One of the toughest things I’d face was hiding my lifelong habit of jumping in and helping at whatever task needed to be done.

I couldn’t resist running my fingers over the dresses Madame Leclerc had made. The fabrics, silk and satin, taffeta and thin cotton, cashmere and lace, whispered against my skin. Emma and I held them to ourselves and swung around, the colors flashing in the sunlight, before we hung them in the wardrobe.

One part of this investigation would be a pleasure. I’d had neither the money nor the reason to dress in finery before.

Before we were half finished, carters arrived with two more sea chests, one carried up to Phyllida’s room and one to mine. I tipped the two men, and a maid showed them out. We opened them to find more silks, more colors, and new shifts and petticoats and nightgowns in soft, cool cotton. My hands slid over everything, reveling in the freshness while the rest of London felt stale.

We’d almost finished when we heard a jangle like my shop doorbell. A moment later, we heard male voices and then footsteps on the stairs. A maid stood in the doorway to my room, a silver tray in her hands.

Phyllida reached out and picked up the calling card on its shiny surface. “Well, well. The Duke of Blackford has come to call.”