The Wrong Girl

by CJ Archer

  ***

  Jack and I trained in the bare room for the rest of the day, and the next. He was edgy and frustrated, and it was difficult for us both to concentrate. I made painfully little progress in learning to willfully produce the fire within me, and therefore absolutely none in dampening it. It wasn't surprising since it required me to be angry, something I couldn't simply turn on at will. The eventual aim, Jack said, was that I would be able to set things alight with a mere thought, and quell the heat at times when my temper got the better of me.

  On the morning of what would have been the third straight day of training, Tommy gave us some startling news over breakfast. Or, I should say, he gave Jack the news. The two of them exchanged whispers in the corner before Tommy took up his position near the sideboard.

  "Bloody hell," Jack muttered, thumping the solid surface of the sideboard with his fist.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "There was another break-in last night. Tommy scared the man away. He and Olson kept watch for the rest of the night. You should have woken me," he said to the footman.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Stop with the sirs when it's just us, will you? You know I hate it."

  Tommy's usually dour expression lifted. "Yes, sir."

  Jack gave him a withering glare, and Sylvia covered her giggle with her hand.

  "Was anything taken?" I asked.

  "No."

  "Was it Patrick?"

  "No, Miss Smith," Tommy said. "It wasn't anyone I recognized."

  "Dear lord," Sylvia said, sitting heavily on a chair. "What if he intended to murder us in our beds?"

  "I'm sure that wasn't his intention, Syl," Jack said.

  Tommy puffed out his chest. "I'll protect you, Miss Langley."

  "Thank you," she said. "I can rely on you if not my own cousin."

  "Have the police been notified?" I asked.

  "Yes, Miss Smith," said Tommy.

  Indeed, the inspector and constable appeared just before luncheon. It was the same ones who'd come the first time, and I was surprised to see them. Weren't they supposed to be arresting the one-armed man? I was dying to find out more, although I doubted Langley would tell me anything. Jack and I watched the policemen leave from the window, our lessons having been abandoned early because neither of us could concentrate or stop speculating about the intruder.

  "I hope they spoke to everyone this time," I said as the policemen climbed into their carriage.

  "I'm more interested in what they said to August about the one-armed man. And what he said to them. Come on, let's find out."

  We went straight to Langley's room where we found him reading in bed. Neither Bollard nor the wheelchair were in sight. The room was much smaller than the previous one in the burnt out eastern wing, and there was little space for anything other than the bed, a writing desk, a wardrobe and a few chairs. Langley had filled up much of the remaining floor space since our last visit. Singed papers piled up near the desk, and broken or burned pieces of equipment filled boxes and crates. Microscopes, tools and jars that had escaped the fire covered the relatively small surface of his desk.

  "I suppose you wish to resume your questioning," Langley said without looking up from his book.

  "You suppose correctly," Jack said. "We saw the police leave. What did the inspector have to say? Have they arrested the one-armed man?"

  Langley closed the book and set it down on the bedside table. "They couldn't arrest him."

  Jack went very still. "Why not?"

  "He claimed not to know anyone named Patrick in London. He said the thief must have lied to you to protect himself. He said he has no interest in my papers."

  "And they believed him?"

  "You have no idea how convincing he can be."

  "Do you believe him?" I asked.

  "No. But look at it from the inspector's perspective. He cannot arrest a gentleman based on the word of a criminal. Not without other evidence."

  "What a farce," Jack muttered.

  "What are we to do?" I asked. "He cannot be allowed to get away with it."

  Jack nodded. "Patrick's life is in danger, and by extension the lives of the charges he cares for."

  "Charges?"

  "He takes care of orphans using money I send him."

  "My money," Langley said.

  Were the children linked to Jack's past? I suspected they were, but I wanted him to tell me of his own accord, not because I peppered him with questions, but because he wanted to.

  "Let me confront the one-armed man," Jack said.

  "No," Langley said. "What good will that do?"

  "If I can get him to admit it, I'll be another witness."

  "And when it's discovered that you know Patrick? No jury would convict him."

  "What if he admits it in front of witnesses?" Jack said. "Or the police?"

  Langley picked up his book and flipped it open to a page near the middle. I could have sworn when he first set it down he was at the beginning. "You're not going," he said.

  Jack stepped up to the bed, but there was nothing threatening about his stance. He did ooze a kind of self-assuredness and power, however. "I'm twenty-two, August. I have able legs and a voice. Let me use them."

  Langley stared down at the book in his lap. The knuckles holding it were white, the thumbs digging into the pages.

  "I can find out who this man is without you telling me," Jack went on. "There can't be too many gentlemen matching the description Patrick gave. So why not just make it easier and tell me."

  Langley closed his eyes.

  "With or without your help, August. You have a choice."

  Langley's eyes opened. I was surprised to see worry in their depths. "It doesn't sound like it." When Jack didn't answer, he added, "I could hire someone privately. I've done it before."

  "To do what?"

  "To find people."

  Did he mean me? Jack?

  "I see." Jack stood again. "I had no idea. I thought Bollard was your only lackey."

  "I can't always spare Bollard. I am a businessman, Jack, and businessmen hire people from time to time."

  "And here I thought you were a mad scientist," I said.

  Langley's lips stretched into a strained smile. "Very amusing."

  "I am involved whether you like it or not," Jack said. "If you wanted to hire someone to confront this man, then I suspect you would have done it instead of sending those incompetent policemen."

  "I'd hoped to solve this in a legal manner."

  "We still can. I want to confront him."

  "He's dangerous."

  Jack seemed to notice what he'd said at the same time I did. Or rather, what he didn't say. He didn't say 'no.'

  "Give me a name, August. Trust me for once."

  "I do trust you."

  "Then prove it."

  Someone cleared his throat behind us, and we all turned. Bollard stood in the open doorway, his unreadable gaze on his master. The small sound was so peculiar coming from the usually silent servant that I gasped.

  "Very well, Jack," Langley said. "I'll tell you everything you need to know about Reuben Tate. You'd better sit down. Both of you."

  I sat in the armchair near the window and Jack pulled a separate hardback chair closer to the bed. Bollard shut the door and came to stand beside the bed like an obedient dog.

  "Reuben Tate and I were partners," Langley said.

  "Partners in what?" I asked.

  "Don't interrupt. We owned a laboratory together and shared research. It seemed the sensible, economical thing to do since we were both in need of funds and our research interests were the same. It was our joint efforts that led to the development of a drug."

  "A drug to cure what?"

  "That is not your concern, Hannah. Reuben and I had a falling out over it. I wanted to sell the remedy to a large company with the facilities to manufacture it on a grand scale, but Reuben wanted to borrow money to expand our laboratory and produce it there. I won."

>   "I'm sure you did," I muttered.

  "We both benefitted financially from the sale. I bought this house and investments then sold off my portion of the laboratory to Tate. We parted ways after that and haven't seen each other since."

  "So why is he stealing your papers?" Jack asked.

  "I can only guess that he's in financial straits again and needs a new cure to sell." He waved his hand, as is if his one-time friend's difficulties were no longer of concern to him.

  "He stole your research?" I asked.

  "Some of it. I had Bollard bury the important formulas that weren't taken during the first burglary."

  So that's what he was doing in the woods the day I tried to escape!

  "Reuben always did have a gambling problem," Langley said. "I suspect his debts have piled up again."

  "But didn't you sell the other drug for a fortune?" I asked. "If your half bought this house, he must have gotten a sizeable amount too."

  "I received more than half since I'd invested most of the funds in the first place. We had an agreement drawn up to reflect the proportions early on." He thrust out his chin. "It was another thing Reuben resented."

  "Did he resent anything more?"

  "The fact that I'm a better microbiologist than he is."

  "And you think that's why he's thieving now? Money difficulties?" Jack asked.

  "Perhaps. Whatever his reasons, I doubt it has anything to do with Hannah's escape from Windamere."

  He was calling it an escape now, was he? It still felt like an abduction to me, but I let the comment pass.

  "It's purely a coincidence," Langley said. "It must be." When neither Jack nor I spoke, he added, "Knowing Reuben, his debts have become unmanageable and he is desperate for money. Selling a new drug, my drug, will alleviate the pressure."

  "If you haven't seen him for some years," Jack said, "how would he know you were working on a remedy?"

  "Because he knows me very well, and I'm always working on something."

  Langley dictated the address of Reuben Tate's laboratory to Bollard who wrote it down and gave the piece of paper to Jack.

  "Hackney Wick," I said, reading it. "Is that far from here? I confess, I've not heard of it."

  Langley grunted. "I'm sure there are many places you've never heard of, Hannah. It's not your fault."

  "I may not have been to many places, Mr. Langley, but I can assure you I was given access to maps and books. I know where most villages in England are."

  Indeed, I had often spread out maps on the floor of our parlor and studied every detail. I'd imagine what each village looked like, what the people did there. When he could, my geography tutor provided books about the places that described the landscape and history of a particular area, and I would study them as if I were leading an expedition. It was silly now that I think about it, but I would imagine myself as an explorer finding undiscovered lands. Every piece of England was like a foreign country to me, having seen nothing further than the Windamere estate boundary, but in truth, there probably wasn't much of the exotic about Derbyshire or Hampshire, Cornwall or Yorkshire.

  "Hackney Wick isn't a village," Jack said. "It's part of London, albeit on the edge." He pocketed the paper. "I'll head off today."

  "So soon?" I said. "But you won't get there before nightfall."

  "I'll spend a night in an inn along the way. Don't worry. I can take care of myself." He was looking at me when he started the sentence, but by the end, he'd turned to Langley.

  Langley picked up his book and began to read. "I'll see you in a few days."