“Yes.” She gave a quick nod to Silver and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry about Pithadora.” She took a deep breath. “She’s just upset with me.”
Pithadora sat in the flickering light of the library. Celine held her breath as Pithadora placed her hand on an open ledger. As Pithadora gazed unblinkingly at her and then turned away in a motion of disgust, Celine flicked her eyes to the bookshelves. One stood open.
Her heart beat faster as her breath caught. “I—” She stopped speaking. The bookshelf that was open was next to the one that she had illicitly opened with the lock picks. Desperately she tried to remember what was contained on the shelves Pithadora had open; tiredness washed over her. Names of those enlisted, no, that was the one she had opened. Major battles, no, that was further along. Investigations by the War Office on homeland. Gods. Yes, that was it. The information was patchy, often just hearsay, but all the information was dutifully noted down by Pithadora as Celine, and before her Angelique, had made their reports.
Before her. Celine’s mouth opened. Angelique had been the agent before her. She would have been the one to receive the message from Fairleigh. She gasped. She’d left the note with Lord Granwich. There was no way that she could surreptitiously put the note back into the ledgers without first going back to retrieve it from Lord Granwich, let alone explain to him why she needed it back.
Pithadora raised her head. “Stop staring at me, girl. I want to know what Lord Granwich told you.”
“I—pardon?”
“You must have some information? That is where you have been to, I believe?” Pithadora slammed her hand down on the table.
“But—” Celine hadn’t told anyone where she was going but Gunvald.
Gunvald had also known that she was going to rescue Edward previously.
Pithadora laid down her quill. “Perhaps, Celine, you are past your prime.”
Celine felt for the chair behind her.
Pithadora continued, “In years gone by you would have had Edward Fiske eating out of your hand, and Lord Granwich dangled on a string between your toes. Instead it seems you can’t keep a hold of one, and the other is a useless old fool. And it is all by the by that you never reached Lord Colthaven’s mansion. Are you no longer up to the job?”
Celine shuddered. Pithadora was right, she had never made it to the latest mark’s house, Lord Colthaven’s mansion on Park Lane. She took a deep breath and coughed as the scent of lavender caught on her throat. “The timing wasn’t right.”
Pithadora made an explosive sound with her mouth. “The timing wasn’t right. Let me tell you this. The timing is always right for a courtesan. Especially when she has been given her orders.”
“I made my own judgement.” Celine closed her mouth. It was strange. Pithadora’s heavy use of perfume had long since ceased to bother her, but now it caught on her nose, as if a tentacle-like mist of the lavender water had caught her across the room.
Pithadora looked up at her, a blank fathomless stare. “Your own judgement? Since when did I say you could use your own judgement?”
“You didn’t as such—”
“I think I’ve had you on too long a leash, Celine, my dear.”
Celine shuddered as Pithadora’s words dripped with venom.
Pithadora cocked her head. “I think you’ve started thinking too much for yourself.”
Celine rocked back in her chair “I need to!”
Pithadora stood. The wave of lavender water that had caught Celine rose up her nose. Pithadora leaned forward as the scent grew stronger. “You don’t need to. I’m telling you, Celine, you are mine!”
CHAPTER 18
The armory in the East End was housed in a long low brown brick building, cheek by jowl with the neighboring tenement blocks. Edward banged on the door, waited and banged again.
A grille across the door covered a shutter that opened. The man that answered was obviously the foreman, but his cap was pulled down low over his face, hiding his features which were already in shadow behind the spy hole of the front door.
“Oh, it’s you.” He pulled back the shutter to the spy hole and then opened the door a foot. “Miss Amelie from the Pink Canary Club said you might be coming. Said you’d probably want a tour.”
Edward frowned. “How did you know it would be me?”
“Ha.” The foreman spat. “You accountants look the same. Terrible suits, hair that wouldn’t move in the wind, and a certain fixed expression when they come to inspect the premises.”
Edward stepped forward. “I feel it is my duty to make sure that all of Mr. Khaffar’s investments are being well looked after.”
“Believe me, sir, they are.” The foreman laughed, a long low dirty laugh that ended in a hacking cough. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the vestibule. I’ll just go and tell the lads that you’re coming in.”
Edward stepped into the small anteroom, waiting for the sounds of machinery or activity to start. But instead there was deadly silence from the warehouses beyond. He folded his arms and looked round the walls. A gun hung in a narrow case, alongside a large crest mounted on a large plank of wood. Honi soit qui mal y pense rippled across a banner below a lion and a unicorn.
It was an emblem he’d seen before, at his tailors, the only time he had had a court suit made up for a ton ball. When he thought that he would impress Celine. The emblem had hung on the wall as he had entered the shop in Savile Row. The tailor had busily told him that he only had a small amount of time for him as he was making up a suit for the Prince Regent, and didn’t Mr. Fiske like his new Royal Warrant badge.
Edward drew in a breath. Mr. Khaffar’s armory was the main supplier of guns to the British Army. Mr. Khaffar hadn’t mentioned that.
Supplier to the army of items such as long-range English Muskets.
Edward shook his head. The conspiracies were turning his mind. The recent theft from the armory had occurred only the month before, not five years before. He was seeing patterns where none would emerge.
The door to the inner warehouse opened cautiously. “Mr. Fiske?”
Edward nodded.
“If you would follow me?”
Edward followed the sound of the voice into a small office beyond, which looked out through glass windows onto the cobbled floor of a large warehouse. Along one side of the warehouse long benches had been set up, with long lengths of iron. The large burly form of the foreman stood by the benches, alongside ten other men, alternately polishing, heating or hammering at long round pipes.
Down the center more men gathered; lathes, and hand blocks littered the work surfaces, where the unmistakable shapes of the butts of the guns were emerging out of wooden blocks.
“I am Mr. Khaffar’s warehouse manager.” Edward turned back to tall figure that sat behind the desk. Large eyes popped out of a skeletal head.
Edward caught his breath.
The man shook his head and smiled sadly. He waved a hand at the chair in front of the desk. “Welcome to my parlor.” The man’s voice boomed out of his equally skeletal body.
Edward nodded cautiously. “I’m Mr. Khaffar’s accountant.”
The man spat on the floor. “Yes, Tommy mentioned it was you at the door. My name is Mr. Carandel, Jimmy Carandel to be precise.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
Mr. Carandel ignored Edward’s greeting. “So what’s the plan? You want a tour, or the accounts or something?”
Actually I’d rather like to know what was stolen a few weeks ago.
“A tour and a look at the accounts would be ample.”
“Both!”
Edward closed one eye and twisted his lips in a pale imitation of Mr. Carandel’s sneer. “When one has to work for Mr. Khaffar, one finds that it is worth doing the job properly. One might lose one’s limbs.”
Mr. Carandel paled noticeably. “It was just a bit of tomfoolery, Mr. Fiske. A bit of joking amongst friends.”
Edward smil
ed his second version of an accountant’s smile. Not as wide as a crocodile, but just small enough to show some teeth.
“Right then, we’ll start with the tour I think.” Unhooking a coat from the back of his chair, Mr. Carandel led the way into the inner warehouse.
The noise was deafening. Blades scraped along wood, metal grinded against metal, but slowly it came to a stop as Mr. Carandel stooped through the door.
“Carry on with what you are doing, boys,” Mr. Carandel boomed. But the noise didn’t increase again. As one the men turned to look at the burly figure of the foreman by the work benches. He gave a short nod, and in ones and twos, the men started work again.
“Marvelous thing the chain of command,” Mr. Carandel said. “Everyone knows their place.”
He laughed a deep bellowing laugh as Edward twitched uncomfortably. The man was frightening, like a ghoul from a haunted house. “Perhaps your foreman could give me a tour, so that you could continue to do some of your own work?”
Mr. Carandel smiled showing the gums of his teeth. “What a good idea.” With no further words, he swung on his foot and lurched back to his office.
Edward stood in the middle of the warehouse. Strangely, without Mr. Carandel, the mass of men suddenly felt less menacing. He drew out his pocket watch. Ten minutes was all he would spend in the warehouse, and then he would find Mr. Carandel again for the accounts. He glanced up at the office. Mr. Carandel had disappeared from view.
“You ought to watch your step whilst you are here,” a squat, clean shaven man said hoarsely under his breath as Edward closed his watch.
“I beg your pardon?”
“People such as you don’t belong in an honest place.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll take it from here, Sam.” Tommy, the burly foreman hooked a hand under Edward’s elbow and marched him away towards the end of the warehouse. “So, Mr. Fiske, Mr. Khaffar’s accountant. What do you want to know about making guns?”
Edward stared. English muskets in Spanish hands. “Um, could you recognize one of your guns from one hundred yards?”
Tommy frowned at him. “What are you trying to test? My experience? I can tell an English musket just from the sound it makes and from five hundred yards. I can tell all of our guns from that distance.”
“Would a lay person be able to do that? An army man for example?”
“Of course. Plenty of our workers here were army men. Don’t need your legs see to do the work here so we have plenty of ex-soldiers with war wounds. They cost less too.” Tommy broke off bitterly. “Mr. Khaffar probably likes that.”
“He hasn’t mentioned it to me.”
Tommy’s run of speaking dried up. “What else?”
“When did Mr. Carandel become the foreman?”
Tommy narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to know about the guns? After all, that’s what this factory is all about.”
“Just passing the time of day.” Edward laughed nervously as Tommy’s eyes bored into him.
“He became the foreman last year. As far as I understand it he used to work in a traveling circus making loads of money. Hasn’t done us any good though. Our luck still hasn’t changed.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Five years it’s been. First of all there was the theft, a big one. Our accountant must have interrupted them because he was found, killed with one of our own weapons, splattered across his own ledgers—”
Edward shuddered. At least he knew now who the blood on the ledgers belonged to.
“Then we were sold because the previous owners couldn’t cover the losses.”
“Sold?”
“Yes. Mr. Khaffar has only owned the business for three years. And then there was another theft just weeks ago, but this time instead of covering the losses, Mr. Carandel has said that he’s going to dock everyone’s pay.”
Edward frowned. “That’s not right. I haven’t authorized that.”
“Mr. Carandel gave us the news last week. The building should have been insured. We’ve got night guards, the works, and still someone managed to get in and take away a load of our prime weapons that were to be delivered to the Household Calvary on Monday.” Tommy’s shoulders hunched. “They are talking about taking away our Royal Warrant.”
Hesitatingly Edward patted Tommy on the back. “Perhaps I can have a word with Mr. Khaffar?”
Tommy blinked the tears away. “It won’t do no use, Mr. Fiske.”
“Why not?”
Tommy’s face grew hard. “We’ve seen what Mr. Khaffar and his men can do with that strange sword of his.” He straightened. “I’ve said too much. It’s time for you to find those accounts now, Mr. Fiske. I’ll let you make your own way back.”
“Thank you for your time.”
Tommy nodded. “Just make sure you don’t find yourself at the sharp end of accounting, Mr. Fiske. I’ve heard it can be a very dangerous business indeed. Much more dangerous than a mere gunsmith’s.”
Edward shuddered as Tommy walked away. His words hadn’t been a threat, they were a heartfelt warning. Slowly he walked back to Mr. Carandel’s office. None of the men took any more notice of him.
Mr. Carandel leaned back in his chair and smiled his wide bony smile. “I trust Tommy was open and honest with you, Mr. Fiske?”
Edward nodded. Tommy had probably been more open and honest than Mr. Carandel realized.
“So if that is everything?”
“I haven’t seen the interim accounts yet.”
Mr. Carandel’s smile dropped. “I’m afraid the theft has taken us somewhat by surprise. We’ve kept very little records since then. I was hoping to do a little overtime and work on them this weekend—”
Edward blinked. The excuses were the same wherever he went. ‘I was going to do it later, something came up. I did the best I could.’
Rubbish.
“I’ll take an inventory then as at today, and the open inventory from three weeks ago.” Edward shook his head.
“I don’t have those numbers.” Mr. Carandel’s eyes bulged.
“You don’t have those numbers? How do you complete your accounts?” Edward frowned.
“Cash in, cash out…”
“What if someone was robbing you?”
Mr. Carandel shook his head. “No one wants to rob Mr. Khaffar. I believe your time here is finished, Mr. Fiske.”
Edward nodded, confused.
“Tommy will show you out.” Mr. Carandel bent his head through the warehouse door. “Hoi- Tommy come and show the bean-counter out!” He laughed a deep bellowing laugh as Edward twitched uncomfortably. “I’m sure I’ll catch up with you again soon.”
Edward followed Tommy to the door. No one wants to steal from Mr. Khaffar. But someone had, a really big haul, enough for them to notice even without an inventory. Surely that didn’t add up?
“I can get you an inventory.”
“I beg your pardon?” Edward stopped in the vestibule as Tommy put a large key into the front door lock.
“I can get you the inventories you asked for.”
“How did you—” Edward stood back as Tommy swung open the door.
“Wait at the Cock Tavern. Buy yourself a pint. Sit on the benches in the alley. No one will bother you there.”
There was a reason why no one would bother Edward in the alley alongside the Cock Tavern. He put his pint of ale to his lips and drew in a draught of the lukewarm liquid, attempting to drown out the smell of rotting cabbages and other mulch that lined the cold, dark pathway.
A large figure sat down on the bench next to him. With relief Edward pulled his pint glass away from his face, but one glance sideways caused his spirits to drop. It wasn’t Tommy.
He raised his glass to his lips again, but as he took another sip, the man’s elbow jogged him. He gulped, a much larger amount of beer sliding down his throat than he wanted.
“Excuse me,” he splutter
ed.
“I’ve got the documents that you wanted.” The large man’s voice was familiar.
Edward wiped at his beer flecked face and turned towards the glowering stranger. He narrowed his eyes as the man held out a leather bound tube. “Everything’s in there. Two inventories and Tommy said you might be wanting a drawing of an English musket.”
Edward took the leather tube slowly. The man opposite was the same one that had threatened him in the workshops. Now, he pushed the tube impatiently at Edward.
“Got no time to stop. We are all on the clock. Carandel watches all of us. I’m only doing this because Tommy told me to. He thinks you’re the only honest man in this bunch of bad pennies. Even the previous accountant was strange. Straight with the books but bent in other ways you see?”
“I’m not quite sure what you mean?”
The man sighed and stood. “None of us were sad when he died. Nor were the young children that beg around here. Put it that way.”
“You were there?”
“We all were. Thirty prime muskets walked out of the warehouse that night five years ago. Each musket takes one man four weeks to make. They docked our pay they did, to try and find out who let the intruder in. And Mr. Carandel’s doing again. They never learn; the men have nothing to hide.” He shook his head. “Goodbye, Mr. Fiske. I hope we don’t see you or your body again.”
With the last threatening statement, the man left, leaving Edward alone again with the smell of cabbages.
Five years ago, thirty muskets. Thirty Spanish peasants seemingly carrying British muskets.
CHAPTER 19
Celine stared in shock at Pithadora as she sat down as if nothing had happened and laid down her quill with an audible click on the library table.
“You refuse to tell me what you said to Lord Granwich?”
Celine’s words came out mechanically. “I merely said that it was a social call, Pithadora, not a business venture. I…I wanted to see how he was after we gave him the news about his son the previous week.”
Maddening Minx Page 14
