The Wrong Girl

by CJ Archer

  ***

  We didn't find Jack on the road. He must have traveled faster than us, which wasn't surprising since he had the better carriage and horses to pull it. We stayed overnight at an inn on the way, and reached Hackney Wick late in the morning.

  The suburb was indeed at the edge of the great city and we came upon it suddenly. The open spaces of the countryside gave way to featureless, interchangeable terraced houses and brick factories that spewed smoke from dozens of chimneys. Their high walls blocked passersby from seeing the machinations behind. Not that there were many passersby. I could count the number who walked the muddy street on one hand. Who could blame people for staying indoors? The air stank and the machinery beyond the walls whirred and clanged in an endless drone. We kept the window closed.

  The carriage slowed in front of a double-story building squashed between two large factories like a small child smothered by fat adults. It was built of brown brick like everything else on the street, but it was a house, not a factory. The brickwork above the two top-most windows was blackened up to the roofline.

  "Do you think this is it?" Sylvia asked. "Do you think he lives there too?"

  "Langley didn't say. I do know it houses Tate's laboratory and factory. I can see the chimney stacks of the factory behind."

  "There's no smoke."

  Indeed there wasn't. The factory mustn't have been in operation. That would align with Langley's theory that Tate needed money quickly and by nefarious means. If his factory wasn't operational, he likely had no income.

  Tommy opened the door for us and we stepped down to the unpaved road. "I'll lead the way," he said.

  "Don't be absurd," Sylvia scolded. "You're a footman. You may escort us inside, but remain a little behind. I don't particularly want to meet this man on our own."

  I didn't think Tommy's presence would make any difference to Tate. As Sylvia so bluntly put it, Tommy was a footman and few gentlemen paid attention to servants. To people of Langley, Wade and Tate's ilk, footmen were as featureless and interchangeable as the Hackney Wick houses.

  "Do you think Jack is here?" Tommy asked, looking up and down the street. "I don't see Olsen or the carriage anywhere."

  "He may have sent him away," Sylvia said.

  "Why would he do that?"

  Why indeed. The unease that had been lurking beneath the surface since leaving Frakingham made itself known in the most intense way. Fear drilled into my core. One man was dead. Please God, don't let Jack be next.

  "I don't think you should come with us," I said to Tommy.

  "What?" Sylvia cried. "Why not?"

  "Tate doesn't know that we know about Patrick. Bringing Tommy may alert him to the fact he's here for our protection. Besides, while we're distracting Tate, Tommy can get into the factory and look around."

  "That's very devious," she said. I wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not.

  "What about the brougham?" Tommy asked.

  "We passed some stables around the corner near the fire engine-station. Take it there and walk back. If Tate is watching us, then he'll think you've left. There must be another entrance into the factory that doesn't go through the front house. See if you can find it."

  Tommy grinned. "It's a good plan, Miss Smith."

  "And dangerous," Sylvia said.

  "Thank you for your concern for my safety, Miss Langley, I'll be alright."

  She sniffed. "I meant it would be dangerous for us alone."

  "Oh. Right." Tommy tipped his cap then hopped up to the driver's seat. "I'll meet you back at the stables." He flicked the reins and drove off.

  "I don't like this," Sylvia said, watching him go. "I don't like this at all."

  "You have to stop worrying. It's written all over your face. Never let the enemy see your fear."

  "Where did you learn that little gem of wisdom? A book on battle techniques?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes. Come on."

  I walked off and when Sylvia caught up to me, I was glad to see she didn't look as if she wanted to throw up her breakfast anymore. "Do you suppose Jack has already been here and left?" she asked.

  "It's entirely likely. He may have even gone to fetch the police, or be on his way back to Frakingham already. But we're here now and we must go inside and find out for sure. Just in case..." I couldn't say it, couldn't hear the words out loud.

  "Yes," Sylvia said heavily. "Just in case."

  A housekeeper wearing a spotless white apron answered the door upon our knock. I took this as a good sign. The presence of such a matronly looking woman was a comfort. Tate wouldn't do anything with her near, surely.

  She directed us to sit in the small downstairs parlor while she fetched her employer. We hadn't been waiting one minute when the man I assumed to be Reuben Tate walked in.

  He wasn't very tall, but he was whip-thin and hollow-cheeked. He was about Langley's age if the white hair was an indication, but where Langley had wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead, Tate had none. His face was as smooth as a polished tabletop, and just as shiny. Indeed, the hair at his ears was slightly damp too. The shirt sleeve that should have housed a left arm was folded and pinned to the side of his waistcoat. He wore no smoking jacket or house coat, but he didn't look like the sort who went for such a casual appearance anyway. He was too neatly dressed. His hair was perfectly combed and his chin cleanly shaved. Much like his face, there wasn't a single wrinkle in his clothes and the shirt collar and trouser creases were sharp.

  "Welcome," he said, giving us a shallow bow. "I commend you both on your courage. I could see that it wasn't an easy decision to send your driver away and speak to me by yourselves."

  So he had indeed been watching us. I was glad that I'd guessed correctly and sent Tommy on his own errand, but disturbed too. I was also deeply disturbed that Jack wasn't there, yet not particularly surprised. When we'd not seen the carriage outside, I knew we'd missed him. Clearly he hadn't managed to get Tate arrested.

  Sylvia shifted uneasily beside me. "My name is Sylvia Langley," she said, thrusting out her chin. "I believe you know my uncle."

  "How is August?" Tate asked. He didn't seem surprised to hear her name, and I wondered if he'd recognized her somehow, or expected her.

  The polite response seemed to catch her unawares. "H, he's w, well, thank you."

  "Good. I'm glad to hear it. And who is your charming companion?" He turned a rather bland smile onto me, but behind it was genuine curiosity.

  "My name is Hannah Smith," I said. "I'm a friend of the Langleys."

  His sharp intake of breath preceded a long pause in which he studied my face, my hair. I felt a blush rise to my skin and I looked down, away. In less time than it took to blink, he was crouching before me. He touched his long finger to my chin and made me look at him, so he could finish his study. I jerked away, and he slowly backed up to his seat without taking his gaze off me.

  "Hannah," he murmured. "Hannah...Smith. Of course. Of course." He chuckled to himself and thumped the chair arm with his palm.

  I glanced at Sylvia and she lifted one shoulder. She had no idea what Tate was talking about either. One moment he was a civil gentleman, and the next he was mumbling to himself and cackling like a witch. It seemed August Langley wasn't the only mad scientist in England.

  "You haven't been under August's roof this entire time," he said. "I would have noticed."

  "No. I haven't."

  "Mr. Tate," Sylvia said in a crisp tone that was reminiscent of Miss Levine. "We're looking for my cousin, Jack Langley. Has he been here?"

  Tate either ignored her or didn't hear. He was once more looking at me with such earnest that I wanted the chair to swallow me up. It was as if I'd delivered a miraculous cure to a dying man or offered up a profound piece of wisdom. I wasn't afraid of him, but I was unnerved and very curious. How did he know my name? How did Langley? Tate might hold some answers to key questions that Langley wouldn't give up.

  "Do you know me?" I asked, breathless.
/>
  "Yes. And no." He grinned, revealing crooked, yellow teeth. They were at odds with his neat, crisp clothing. "Hannah Smith, where have you been for the last eighteen years? I've been looking for you."

  "How do you know who I am?"

  "Hannah," Sylvia said, "perhaps we shouldn't be asking Mr. Tate that sort of question without Uncle present."

  "Don't listen to her," Tate said. His top lip pared back in a sneer. "Langley doesn't have your best interests at heart, Miss Smith. I know him far better than both of you, and I know he cares nothing for you."

  "I beg your pardon," Sylvia said huffily. "You know nothing of the sort."

  The housekeeper re-entered carrying a tray. She poured tea for us then left without a glance back. Once she was gone, Sylvia grabbed my hand. "We're going. Clearly Jack isn't here."

  I patted her hand and she caught it too, trapping both of mine. "I want to hear what he has to say," I said.

  "Please, Hannah," she whispered. "Let's go."

  Tate handed a cup and saucer to Sylvia. "At least stay for tea. You might also find what I have to say interesting."

  "I want to stay," I said to her. "Just for a few minutes."

  Her fingers tightened around my hands, then she let go. She accepted the cup then put it down on the table. "No. Come, Hannah."

  I shook my head. Tate pressed the very edge of his lips to the rim of his cup and sipped. "I'm not the enemy, Miss Langley. I've made some mistakes in the past, but I'm not out to harm either of you, whatever Langley has led you to believe."

  "He hasn't led us to believe anything," Sylvia muttered.

  "What has he told you about me?"

  "That you two were partners once," I said, "and that you bought his share of the business with your proceeds from the sale of a drug."

  He took another sip. "The bare facts. True enough in essence."

  "Mr. Tate," said Sylvia, "where is my cousin?"

  A small crease connected his eyebrows and, after his gaze flicked to the door, it finally settled on her. He took another sip and regarded Sylvia over the rim of the cup. "Don't fret, Miss Langley, he's well. After we talked he wanted to explore the factory. My assistant has taken him on a tour."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sylvia turn to me. I didn't need to see her face to know she was confounded by Tate's calm manner. I was too. I almost preferred the slightly hysterical chuckling. This blank evenness felt unnatural. He was hiding something, and by the way the teacup trembled, it had to be either excitement or fear. Considering we were young, female and in his home, I doubted it was the latter.

  "Why would he want a tour?" I asked. "Jack came here to confront you over the theft of Mr. Langley's papers. Do you deny you stole them?"

  "No."

  "So you admit it!" Sylvia scowled. "Then why hasn't Jack had you arrested?"

  "Because we had a very profound discussion, and he no longer believed involving the police was necessary. Shall I tell you what I told him?"

  I desperately wanted to say yes. I suspected the things he'd said to Jack were tightly interwoven with my own burning questions about how Tate and Langley knew me. But Sylvia was right. We needed to ensure Jack was safe first. Afterward, I would seek out the answers.

  "We'd like to see him," I said.

  "Let him be, ladies. A lad like Jack needs time away from women and prattle once in a while. There can't be much for him at Frakingham with only you two and that cripple for company."

  The one-armed man was calling the wheelchair-bound man a cripple? If my sense of humor hadn't been leached out of me by Tate's odd declarations, I would have laughed out loud.

  "Our conversations are quite lively, thank you very much," Sylvia said with a sniff.

  Tate pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and dabbed his forehead, but the shine remained. "Tell me, Miss Langley, does your uncle still have that silent ogre hovering about? I remember when he first came to work for August."

  "Bollard? Yes, why?"

  His lips flattened and he carefully re-folded his handkerchief on his knee. "He's not what he seems, you know. He's...devious. Watch him, Miss Langley. Watch him very closely. That's my advice to you."

  I was beginning to think Tate would win if there were a Mad Scientist competition between him and Langley. No wonder they'd fallen out. Two such men in a confined space would be a formula for an explosive relationship.

  "We'd like to see Jack," I demanded. "Immediately."

  His lips flattened. "As you wish. But first, let me tell you what I told him. I'd like the chance to defend myself. What I'm about to tell you not only eased Jack's mind, it spurred his interest in what I'm doing here. Shall we talk as we walk to the factory?"

  "I don't know," Sylvia said, chewing her lip.

  "I'll also tell you how I know you, Miss Smith." He smiled at me in a way that could only be described as sweet. I was no longer sure how to take Tate. My instincts were confused. One moment he was all kindness, the next he was being odd and evasive. So I set instinct aside and used my head. I wanted answers, and if I needed to follow him to get them, I would. If there was a chance that Jack was there, we had to find out for sure.

  "We'll come," I said, standing. Sylvia seemed relieved to have the decision made for her.

  Tate rose and indicated we should walk ahead. "I'd better begin at the beginning. No doubt August told you that he and I fell out over money, and that I stole his papers so that I could reproduce his latest remedy and sell it. He always did pretend I was the greedy one, when in truth it was he all along."

  "What do you mean?" I asked. We walked slowly out of the parlor and back into the entrance hall. An Oriental rug deadened the sound of our shoes on the tiles. It was a new rug, the pile still thick, and it ran the length of the narrow hall. Another rug covered the stairs, and it too looked new, as did the hat stand, table and framed mirror. The faint smell of paint hung in the air, but I could see no artworks. The walls must have been freshly painted.

  "He has always wanted that which his betters had," Tate went on. "A grand house, horses, carriages, land. To him, those things meant status and respect, two things he desired more than any...well, more than the use of his legs." He paused at the front door. "You know this to be true, don't you, Miss Langley?"

  Sylvia looked down at her feet. Her nod was slight, but noticeable.

  "Your uncle was the one who wanted to sell the remedy for the most money we could get. I didn't want to sell it at all."

  "I don't like you besmirching my uncle's name," Sylvia said.

  "Then block your ears."

  "What was the remedy for?" I asked.

  "To combat an insidious disease," he said. "You wouldn't have heard of it."

  I was beginning to get the feeling there was more to their remedy than they were telling us.

  Tate held the door open, and we walked outside once again. The small front garden had little to recommend it. It was sparse and winter-bare, with only a few low-growing herbs planted in square beds, and several dormant roses spaced precisely apart along the fence. A stone path led to the side of the house and we followed it. "Your uncle may have wanted the money, but I wanted the glory of the discovery. See, we each have our weaknesses, Miss Langley, but I'm not afraid to reveal mine. I wanted to sell the rights to manufacture the drug to another company better equipped to do it, but keep control over its dissemination and packaging. August didn't care about that since few companies with deep pockets weren't interested in a deal that didn't give them total control. He won, of course. He usually did when we disagreed. I think you both know how...immovable he can be."

  "So why did you steal his research?" I asked as we slowly made our way down the side of the house. It was damp and dark beneath the shadows of the house on one side and the wall of the neighboring factory on the other. "Do you want to pass off his new drug as your own?"

  "No. This time it's different. I'll admit that I have debts. I like to spend money and...unforeseen circumstanc
es have meant a large outlay recently. But that's not why I took his papers which, I might add, didn't have everything I needed to replicate the remedy."

  "Good," said Sylvia.

  "Long before August and I developed the remedy that made us rich, we were working on another experiment."

  "What has this to do with anything?" she asked.

  Tate paused and looked at me, but I already knew. It had to do with me. "August and I belonged to a group called the Society For Supernatural Activity. It's not exactly a secret organization, but they're not very open about what they do. I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say the members like to dabble in the supernatural."

  Sylvia snorted. "What rot. There's no such thing as ghosts and what not." She flapped her hand, but neither Tate nor I paid her much attention. Weren't Jack and I proof that supernatural phenomena did exist?

  "Why do the members like to dabble, Mr. Tate?" I asked.

  "To see if it exists or not."

  "I'm surprised that it interests you. Doesn't believing in such things go against everything scientists stand for?"

  "For many, yes. Not for August and me. We wanted to study these phenomena, to see how they work and try to replicate them in a laboratory environment. We thought if we could identify what caused paranormal traits in humans, we might be able to harness it."

  "And sell it."

  "Yes."

  I stopped and put a hand to the wall of the house. The moss-covered bricks cooled my palm, but I had difficulty catching my breath. It felt like a weight was pressing down on my chest, pushing the air out of me. "What am I, Mr. Tate?"

  "You are a rare fire starter," he said softly. In the dim light of the shadowy path, it was difficult to see him clearly, but his eyes sparkled with tears. "But you already knew that."

  "Yes. Jack and I are the only ones."

  He shook his head. "No, you're not. There's another."

  "Who?"

  We'd reached the factory door, and he held it open for us. The door sported thick bolts, but none were locked. The heavy wood seemed new, the paint fresh. The bricks of the small factory were blackened above the doorway and the single boarded-up window to the right. Same as the house. There were no other windows on the one-story building that I could see. No sign of Jack, either, or indeed anyone else. I spared a thought for Tommy and hoped he had not yet arrived.

  "I'll tell you inside," Tate said. "Jack's in there, and he's very curious about the same things as you, Miss Smith. I'll tell you together."

  "Everything?" I asked.

  "Yes. The entire story, dating back almost twenty-two years."

  "Wait!" Sylvia gripped my arm and pulled me back along the path, out of earshot. Tate didn't come after us, but kept on smiling. "It might be a trick," she hissed into my ear.

  "There's a very good chance that it is," I said gravely.

  "Then we have to leave!"

  "No. Jack might be in there and in difficulty."

  "I doubt it. Jack doesn't get himself into difficulties, only out of them. He at least can set things on fire at will. You can't."

  "I can if I'm angry, and I can assure you I'll be furious if Tate is lying. Sylvia, I have to find out what he knows. Do you understand how important this is to me? He has the answers to questions I've longed to know, not only about my fire starting, but about my parents. Finding those answers means...everything." My throat squeezed shut with the effort not to cry. I hadn't meant to sound so vehement, nor had I expected to want answers so badly that I would walk into a suspected trap. But I did. God, how I wanted to learn what Tate knew. I suddenly felt like half a person, with a major part of my life missing. Tate could fill in the hollow spaces.

  I had to know and I would do anything to get those answers. Anything.

  I walked away from her and back to Tate. As I stepped through the doorway, the faint odor of damp ashes filled my nostrils. I could only see what lay within the beam of natural light, yet even that disappeared when Tate shut the door on Sylvia, himself and me.

  But not before I saw the twisted and blackened metal of broken machines, the burnt beams and tools, and the utter devastation wrought by fire.

  "Is there a lamp, Mr. Tate?" Sylvia tried her best to sound commanding, but the wobble in her voice was unmistakable. "Light it this instant!"

  I headed toward her voice and found her outstretched hands, searching for me. She latched onto me and we clasped each other. Her heartbeat hammered against my shoulder, her limbs trembled. She was terrified, and that would make her useless. It was up to me. I had to keep the fear at bay otherwise the anger wouldn't come.

  "Where's Jack?" I demanded.

  "I thought you wanted answers. Don't you want to know who the third fire starter is?"

  "We want Jack. He's not here, is he?" I felt the now familiar heat rise inside me, like a tidal swell that began in my belly and rose outward, upward. I embraced it, fueled it with deliberate thoughts of hatred toward Tate. I did indeed hate him, far more than I feared him.

  "I'll tell you anyway." Tate's voice came from further away, in the depths of the factory. "It's me. I'm the third fire starter."

  CHAPTER 14