by Joan Smith
A grunting noise was heard, not from my victim, but from the floor, where Richard lay. Concerned though I was to see whether he was alive or dead, instinct led me to ensure my own life first. I swung again. A strong hand reached out and seized my arm. The teapot fell with a clatter.
"I arrest you in the name of the law,” Ketchen declared.
"For God's sake, Ketchen, let me go,” I said, and wrenched my wrist free. “If you have killed Richard...” I flew to him, just as he rose up from the floor, shaking his head. “It's all right, Richard. It is only Ketchen,” I said.
Richard struggled to his feet. “If I die of a fractured skull, I will die happy, knowing I was killed by Bow Street."
"Let us have some light,” I declared.
Ketchen carried a dark lantern. He allowed us one quick peek to see there were no impediments in our way. We stepped around the teapot and the puddle oozing from it, found the stairs, and mounted to the saloon.
"There's only one room where we may safely have a light,” he told us. “That wee bit of a parlor off the dining room."
I said brusquely, “I don't know about you, Richard, but I am ready to forget Tom for tonight, and light the saloon."
"Now you see an officer's duty is not all cracking heads and chasing murderers and shooting thieves. There is a deal of work to it as well,” Ketchen informed us. “After waiting here for two hours, I am much of a mind to sit it out and have done with Tom Cat once and for all."
With this lure to sustain us, we went to the wee bit of a parlor off the dining room and allowed ourselves the luxury of a lamp. “My eyes tell me you have had a tumble,” Ketchen remarked, when the light revealed our condition.
I adjusted my arm sling, which had come loose. “It is reassuring to know Bow Street is awake on all suits, Mr. Ketchen. We have been bruised to the backbone and marrow."
He gave Richard a wire-drawn smile in appreciation of my temper. Richard suggested I would be better off in bed, while he and Ketchen stood guard, but I elected to remain below. There followed a few of the most stultifyingly boring hours ever endured by humankind. First we listened, and we occasionally imagined we heard a sound outside, but it invariably came to naught. No private conversation was possible with Ketchen playing propriety between us. The talk was all of Tom.
Ketchen asked for a description of the picture Tom had stolen from my London house, and I described it. “It was a portrayal of an old man's head. I believe he had a cravat at his neck, although he was not wearing a jacket."
Something in my description caught Richard's interest. “Was he wearing a hat?” he asked.
"He had something on his head. It blended into the shadows behind, so it was difficult to tell."
"You say you bought it from the same shop where you bought Lord Hutching's commode?"
"That is right. I bought several pieces there."
"Good lord!” he said weakly. “The missing Rembrandt."
My ears perked up at this stupendous statement. “Missing Rembrandt? Don't tell me I have been robbed of a Rembrandt!"
"Old Lord Hutching certainly had a self-portrait of the artist, similar to the one you have described. When he died, his brother from Ireland inherited the estate. He was a wastrel, who sold off the silverplate and paintings bit by bit, to finance his dissipation. He mortgaged the house, and eventually lost it. The Rembrandt disappeared from view. What did you pay for the painting?"
"A crown—for the frame."
Richard's face fell in astonishment. When he had recovered, he rose and said grimly, “We are wasting our time. The London theft was no ruse to get you out of your house. Eve, Some art thief learned you had the Rembrandt, and went after it. It has nothing to do with Tom."
"Ketchen, you must recover it!” I exclaimed.
Ketchen shook his head wearily. “I daresay all of London and his brother knew you had the thing."
"No, none of my callers ever mentioned its being a Rembrandt. It was in a dark corner, you know. You did not notice it when you called, Richard?"
"When I realized the painting in the entrance hall was an inferior imitation of Van Dyke, I assumed your other paintings were of the same sort."
I thinned my nostrils at this description of the portrait in my front hall, hung there as I considered it the best of my “collection."
Ketchen, listening, spoke up. “What of the plate that was taken? Your art thief will not usually take the family silver."
"It was in a safe in my bedchamber,” I told him.
"At Bow Street, we find they nip in, take what is worth taking from the walls, and get out quick as winking."
"I shall go to London and see what else is missing."
"I'll know the whole by morning,” Ketchen said. “I fired off a note to Bow Street to look into it before coming here. If your Jimmie Polke was away all night, then the thief had ample time to rummage."
"And Brockley, or any of his guests, had ample time to get to London after his party,” I countered. “I'll wager he only had that party to give himself an alibi."
Ketchen said, “I'll stake my head ‘twas a London rogue. They make merry as soon as the gentry trot out of London at the Season's end."
"Then we are wasting our time, sitting here in the dark,” I declared, and strode into the saloon, where I lit every lamp in the room, and removed my sling to pour us a glass of wine.
"The least morsel or bit of the grape rushes straight to my head,” Ketchen admitted, “but as I am off duty, I shall join you.” He accepted his glass with enthusiasm. “Watching and waiting is thirsty work."
The wine, added to the lateness of the hour and the day's many exertions, made me drowsy. After a couple of yawns, Richard said good night and took his leave. Ketchen said he would just stretch out on the sofa, if I had no objection, and remain till morning, just in case.
"You are perfectly welcome to stay, Mr. Ketchen. I shall get you a pillow and blanket."
When I returned, he had refilled his glass. The grape was going to his head. He was more relaxed, and freer of tongue.
"Townshend puts great faith in Mr. Dalton,” he said.
"Yes. Tom relieved Mr. Dalton of some money, so naturally he is eager to help Bow Street."
"So I have heard. Townshend shares all his secrets with Mr. Dalton. Dalton had seen your Rembrandt..."
"He had seen it, but did not recognize it."
"So he says. And he knew of the safe in your bedroom?"
"Yes, but I trust you are not suggesting that he is the thief! You have had quite enough wine, Mr. Ketchen.” I took the bottle with me when I left.
It was utter nonsense to think Richard had anything to do with any of these thefts. He had given a perfectly reasonable explanation of why he had been loitering outside Parker's shop the day I met him. Yet if he had been surreptitiously keeping an eye on his accomplice, Robert Naismith, it would explain his eagerness to leave when the constable appeared. It was odd, too, that I had never once spotted the watchman he claimed to have guarding my house. But then, how to explain his returning Lady Dormere's ring? She had written on her own stationery to thank me for it.
He was rich as could be. Why would he steal? I remembered Linda claiming that Richard had become such a skint. He used to be more generous. I thought of my jewels, stored in his safe. He had ample time to have them copied. He usually suggested which jewels I should wear. Was that to prevent my choosing a piece he had given a jeweler to have copied?
Surely I was not being conned by a clever gentleman? Surely he was truly fond of me. Or my fortune ... This could not be true! Why had we spent an extremely trying evening in a mock flight to London, if Richard knew perfectly well no one was going to break into my house? It would all make more sense in the morning, I decided, and finally went to sleep, just as the rosy fingers of dawn lightened the sky.
Chapter Nineteen
Hennie was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and full of gossip when I joined her for breakfast the next morning. Although my sore
arm had recovered, my few hours of worrying in the dark left me limp and crotchety. As sleep proved elusive, I rose early and was downstairs at my usual eight o'clock. Ketchen had left.
"No luck in catching Tom?” Hennie inquired, with a smirk.
"No. I expect Richard told you he failed to come.” I gave an account of our fruitless night.
"Richard was still in bed when I left. Your servants are in a rare pelter this morning, Eve. Cook says the bread she had set out to rise was on the floor; the teapot minus its spout was in the hallway, with tea running all over. She is threatening to report Ketchen to his superior."
"I shall speak to her later. What on earth is that thing you are eating, Hennie?"
"Biscuits, since the bread could not be baked. Luke is back in the garden with his tail between his legs."
"I told him he was not to return."
"Timothy says he really is a wonderful gardener, if you could only stop him from selling everything he grows. Now that the season is begun, folks have hired up all the local labor. People like you, favored above the norm by God, should show compassion to the less fortunate."
"Must you quote both husband and lover to me in one speech, Hennie?"
"Timothy is not my lover! You make it sound like a cheap smack-and-cuddle affair. It is nothing of the sort."
"Sorry. I suppose I shall give Luke another chance."
Cook brought a nice big bowl of strawberries. “From Luke,” she said, with an appealing eye. “Mary is sweet on him. She says if he goes, she goes.” Mary was my favorite servant. “He is ever so sorry, Miss Denver. It is just that he has always had the excess produce, you see, as part of his wages."
"He has an odd idea of ‘excess.'” I meant to keep him, but I would let him simmer a little longer. “How was your evening, Hennie?” I asked, to let Cook know we were finished with discussing Luke. Cook gave me a jaundiced look and left.
"Harelson brought Linda home early. She was very upset."
"More trouble with him?"
"He is not good enough for her, but she is eager to get a home of her own. Richard seems nice, but she says he is always scolding her for her expensive habits."
It was obvious to anyone who knows her that Hennie wished me to join in her disparagement of Richard. She gets a certain gleam in her eye. “I don't blame Richard. Linda spends like a drunken sailor."
Hennie bridled up at this slur on her lover's profession. “All sailors are not drunken wastrels. Timothy never overindulges. He is a simple man."
"I noticed. But we were discussing Linda. She is only sore because she cannot land Harelson. If he does not come to the sticking point, she should go after someone else."
"He did propose last spring; that is the odd thing. He even gave her an engagement ring, but in secret, not to be worn in public. She had slipped it on last night. Harelson and she were alone when I went over, you know. I would not have noticed the ring if he had not kept squinting at it. Then Linda became flustered and took it off and put it in her pocket. Harelson seemed angry when he left."
"What excuse does he give for not wanting her to wear it?"
"He told Linda it is a family heirloom. People might recognize it and suspect they are engaged. It is quite distinctive. A star sapphire done in what she calls a cabochon cut, round and smooth, like a small blue cherry, set in gold prongs. He wants her to give it back, though he swears he is still mad for her. She holds on to it because it is all that keeps him calling."
"He does not act like a man in love. What is the great secret in their betrothal? Richard would not object, I think."
"Harelson told her a cock-and-bull story about his papa wanting him to marry some lady back home. He will be cut off without a sou if he disobeys, and all that sort of claptrap. There is no saying Richard will do anything for Linda if she marries a penniless man. He has had his fill of them with Filmore. She was in tears, Eve. She asked me not to mention the ring, so you must not say anything to Richard."
"I wish you had not told me. I dislike this duplicity."
"Try the berries,” she said, endeavoring to lure me into a good mood. “Cook has supplied this clotted cream to go with them. Sprinkle a little of this castor sugar on the berries.” I ate the berries and cream and biscuit without tasting them.
"I promised Linda I would look in on her after breakfast,” Hennie said. “Will you come with me, Eve?"
"You go ahead. I must mollify Cook, and speak to Luke."
"We might go out for a drive later, to cheer her up,” Hennie said, then she got her bonnet and went next door.
I sallied forth to wage domesticity. First I called Cook and apologized myself back into her good graces. Then I sent for Luke, and after severe admonitions, agreed to give him another chance.
"The thing is,” he said, “Lady Grieve always let me have the excess produce."
"I am aware of that, Luke. What salary did she pay you?"
I learned that she paid him exactly half what I was paying him. “If you would prefer to return to your old salary and have the excess produce, we will settle for that,” I said. He took the extra cash, and I, in a benevolent mood, said he might have any produce we did not require for home consumption.
When all my unpleasant duties were taken care of, I still felt unsettled. Those seeds of doubt Ketchen had planted last night began to sprout. I should be on my way to London to recover my silver and my Rembrandt, but I was loath to leave.
Richard, I felt, would offer to come with me, but those seeds of doubt grew apace. I could not quite believe Richard was Tom, but if he was only courting me for my fortune, I must be rid of him. And all the friends and social activity he had brought would leave along with him.
Surely Richard was not the notorious Tom. There were more likely suspects. Grindley, Naismith, Brockley. Even Harelson might be involved. If he loved Linda and would lose his fortune if he married her, he might take to a life of crime to finance marriage to the expensive wench. My mind wandered back to a snatch of conversation overheard at my garden party. What Harelson had been asking Linda to give him back was the ring.
At nine-thirty Hennie returned, bursting with news. “Linda is going to visit Lady Grieve, in London. She had a letter, and said she most go at once. I asked if her aunt was ill. She said no. Then she said yes, then she told the servants to pack a bag, as she would be leaving on the ten-o'clock coach. Richard was still in bed. She said he might want the carriage himself."
"It is unlike her to be so thoughtful. I really should go to London myself to see what all is missing. Hennie, would you mind running over and offering her a seat in my rig?"
"Will you want me to go to London with you, Eve? You will not want to be alone in the house, with only Polke."
"I expect you have plans to see Brockley?"
"I had a note from him this morning. When the prince is in Brighton, he has no time for me,” she said, with a sniff.
Hennie went to speak to Linda. She was back in five minutes. “I just missed her. Ruthven said he had called a hansom cab for her. I saw one flying down the street as I crossed the yard. She was in an almighty yank to be off."
"It is very strange, but perhaps the visit was urgent—Lady Grieve dying, I mean. No doubt Linda left word for Richard to follow as soon as he awoke."
"You would think that would be important enough for her to wake him. You don't suppose the sly puss is up to something, Eve? She didn't even take a servant for company."
"What could she be up to? She made no secret of her going. If Ruthven feels Richard ought to know, he will tell him. I shall ask Ruthven to tell Richard we are off to London. Would you mind notifying the servants we are going, Hennie?"
"We will want to take Cook along, and Mary or Sukey to make the beds and keep the saloon dusted."
"You are right. Tell them to get ready at once.” I dashed off my note and sent Tumble over with it while Hennie arranged matters with the servants.
Hennie and I went upstairs at once to oversee our packing
. As there was a possibility Richard would be in London, I meant to take a gown for evening wear. I did not forget, in all this confusion, that he still had my jewels. To ask for them back was as good as admitting I mistrusted him. That would be the end of my romance. I was not ready to sink it yet.
I expected every moment that he would come, but after half an hour, it was Ruthven who came. I went to speak to him. “I am upset at Lady Filmore's sudden departure, Ruthven,” I said.
"I was upset myself at first,” he replied, “but Mr. Dalton feels there is nothing amiss. Lady Grieve has been ailing for some time. Lady Filmore is her heir, you know."
That explained the mystery to my satisfaction. How eager Linda must have been to secure the fortune that would enable her to marry Harelson.
"Will Mr. Dalton be going to London?” I asked, trying not to reveal my eagerness. I was still eager, in spite of all.
"He asked me to give you this,” Ruthven replied, and handed me a note. He remained there while I read it, in case an answer was required.
My darling:
Forgive my not coming in person. Ruthven has just roused me from a deep sleep. I am covered in whiskers and bruises after last night's escapade, and unfit for a lady's eyes until my valet pulls me into shape. I shall not detain your departure for London, as I know you are eager to leave. I want a word with Ketchen before going. I shall call on you this afternoon in London. Love, Richard.
P.S. A thousand apologies for last night's farouche display. And I forgive you, too.
I could not enjoy my billet-doux with Ruthven's knowing eyes on me. “No reply is necessary,” I said, and he left, smiling to himself.
After he had gone, I read the note half a dozen times, reveling in its tone. “My darling.” He had never used such terms of endearment before. He was coming to London. There was nothing amiss in Linda's precipitous flight. She would inherit her aunt's fortune and marry Harelson. In short, my headache was banished, the sun was shining, and I was ready to undertake my little jaunt with a light heart.
