A Trace of Deceit

by Karen Odden

  He drew a deep breath. “My God.”

  “I know. The cruelty just seems to go on and on. Maybe now it can stop.” I spoke hopefully, but he made a noncommittal noise, and I eyed him with concern. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?” And then I remembered. “What you said about Lord Sibley being poisoned, was that true?”

  He studied me for a moment. “If I tell you, can you promise not to say anything—even to Celia when you see her?”

  “Of course.”

  “It involves a case that began before I came to the Yard, so I’ve only just learned about it myself.” A dark eyebrow rose. “But you’ll recognize the gist of it.”

  I leaned an elbow along the back of the settee and rested my cheek on my hand, watching his face intently.

  “Several years ago, one of our inspectors intercepted a shipment of guns bound for France. There was no bill of lading and no identifying marks on the guns, but the vessel belonged to the Jesper Shipping Company.”

  I stiffened.

  “Naturally, this raised questions, but almost immediately the head of the Yard halted the investigation. The order came from the highest levels of government.”

  “So someone was condoning it,” I said slowly. “And Lord Sibley was involved?”

  He nodded. “He had arranged for the funds outside normal channels.”

  I frowned. “But why was he poisoned?”

  “The gunmaker died and left the business to his son, who recognized that if this ever came to light, he’d never receive another government contract again—because while Gladstone might have looked the other way, Disraeli wouldn’t.”

  “And Disraeli was elected in February of last year,” I recalled. “So the son had to silence Lord Sibley when he returned in March—” My voice broke off and I realized with horror what this meant. “What about Mr. Jesper? He died at the end of February.”

  Matthew’s eyes were dark with regret. “February twenty-fourth, to be precise. I know. We’ve no proof his death was anything other than an accident, but . . .”

  “Oh, Matthew,” I breathed. “Are you going to tell her?”

  “She already suspects something,” he reminded me.

  “That’s why it would be kindest to tell her,” I insisted. “Otherwise she’ll always wonder.”

  “I may not be allowed to, Annabel.” He shrugged wearily. “I need to wait, in any case. I shouldn’t even have told you this much.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, regretting I’d pressed him. “I won’t say a word. Not to her or anyone,” I promised soberly. Nothing good would come of it, certainly. I drew close and rested my head on his shoulder. The linen of his shirt was soft against my cheek.

  He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and gave a sigh that expanded his ribs. “In any event, this marks the end of my work on the case. Martin is sending me to Bracknell tomorrow on the two-oh-six with another plainclothesman on another matter. I expect to be gone for at least a fortnight.”

  I felt a pang of unhappiness at the thought. Until everything was settled, I wished he were staying in London. But I kept that feeling to myself.

  His hand was gentle on my hair, and we stayed like that for a good while. And then Matthew’s breathing deepened, and I realized he was asleep. I shifted, and touched his face. “Matthew.”

  His eyelids flickered, and I stood and took his hand to help him up.

  “Matthew, you should go to bed.”

  Fumblingly he stood, drew me close for a moment, and started up the stairs. As I listened to his heavy steps, my heart went out to him. After all his work, this seemed such an unsatisfactory result, especially as he’d unearthed additional crimes. But he’d discovered some bits of truth, and perhaps he could be content with that.

  WE’D HEARD NOTHING from the hospital regarding Felix, but at the breakfast table the next morning, as I poured the last of the tea for us, a message arrived that he could see visitors. Matthew said he had time to visit Felix with me before he was due at the train station, so we finished up hastily and set out for Agar Street. At Charing Cross Hospital, a nurse directed us to the upper floor, and we walked into the ward.

  I hesitated outside the curtained area, thinking of Felix’s weakness for spirits and the shame he might feel. But I hoped the news we brought might help.

  His head was wrapped in a white bandage that failed to conceal the curved edge of the purpling bruise over his temple. His face was slack and pale, but his eyelids fluttered as I approached the bed.

  “Felix.” I rested my hand briefly on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re going to be all right.”

  He turned his head away with a low moan and closed his eyes. “Please. I’m tired.”

  I kept my voice soft. “Felix, Boulter has been caught, and the painting’s recovered.”

  At that he opened his eyes again, and his dull gaze shifted from me to Matthew, who nodded. Still, there was barely a spark of feeling, and I realized what might help most of all.

  I sat down close to his bed. “I want to apologize, Felix. I never thanked you for your kindness to Edwin and to me, for years now. The day of his funeral, I couldn’t have managed anything for myself—and you did all of it. I’ve been so consumed by my own grief that I’ve completely ignored how painful it was for you, losing Edwin. I know you loved him.”

  He was staring up at the ceiling. Slowly, tears rose to his eyes and rolled down the sides of his slack cheeks onto the pillow. He didn’t even look at me, but he let them come. “Yes, I loved him.” A juddering sigh. “We understood each other.”

  “Edwin was unhappy for a long time,” I said. “At least he seemed to find some peace—and trust—with you . . . and me, too, at the end.”

  He turned to me, a question in his eyes.

  “Felix, I went to your rooms the other day, intending to leave you a message. And while I was at your desk, I found a letter from Edwin, addressed to me.”

  His eyes widened in bewilderment, and then his expression changed to one of horror. “Oh God. I’m sorry—”

  “It’s all right,” I assured him and laid a hand on his arm. “Truly. Please don’t distress yourself!”

  He struggled to sit up. “But I completely forgot! Mr. Poynter gave it to me at the funeral. He felt it would upset you, coming so close to Edwin’s death.” A sigh as he lay back against the pillow. “I should have given it to you right away.”

  “No, you did the proper thing, waiting,” I said. “If you’d given it to me earlier, I doubt I’d have paid it any attention. Instead, it gave me what I needed, at the right time.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “He told me where to find the receipts and shipping information for the painting. They proved the late Lord Sibley had sold it back to the LeMarc family, and it was rightfully theirs. Stephen Jesper had it in his house only because he was supposed to ship it, once Lord Sibley sent word that the LeMarcs were settled again. But Lord Sibley became ill and the order never came. If it had, Celia might have looked for the painting earlier. As it was, the LeMarcs thought it was in the Pantechnicon, like everyone else.”

  “Where is the painting now?” Felix asked.

  Matthew spoke up. “It’ll be sent to the LeMarc family. We’ll ensure it arrives safely.”

  Felix’s chest heaved with a sigh. “Well, Annabel, I am glad for your sake.”

  I was about to protest that this mattered for his sake, too, but suddenly Felix’s eyes were wide, and his head was moving as if he were trying to track a moving fly. “I’m going to be sick.”

  Hastily I reached for a metal bowl nearby and held it for him. When he’d finished, I went to the washstand and submerged a small towel in water and wrung it out. “Here.”

  He pressed the cold cloth to his face, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

  A nurse appeared and spoke officiously, “You need to rest, Mr. Severington. Your visitors can come back tomorrow.”

  I put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “She’s right, Fel
ix. Just rest. Everything will be all right.”

  He drew away the towel, and his expression was incredulous. “How can it be? My reputation is gone, and I’ll never find employment. Bettridge’s told me on Saturday that I was finished for good.” He shook his head hopelessly. “I’ve still no idea . . .”—his voice faded until it was almost inaudible—“. . . how I’m to live.”

  The two meanings of that phrase struck me with the force of a stone against my chest. I knew Felix had been inebriated when he’d fallen in front of the cab, but had there been a part of him that wished it would kill him?

  Felix turned his head away and closed his eyes. His fingers waved me off.

  “Annabel,” Matthew said quietly. “Let him be.”

  And so we left. But as we descended to the street, I felt how deeply unfair this was, and as we reached the pavement I pulled Matthew to a stop beside me. I’d been prevented from accusing Sam Boulter, of staring into his face as he was forced to acknowledge what he’d done. But John Fishel was a public figure, and accessible—and I despised him for the despair that he’d sown in a man who wasn’t to blame for Edwin’s death, or for any of this mess. I felt my fury rising. “I want five minutes with John Fishel.”

  Matthew’s blue eyes met mine. “I can get you that,” he said. “But I’ll warn you—and I’m not jesting—you’ll probably make no impression upon him whatsoever.”

  “That may be,” I said shortly. “I want it anyway.”

  THE OFFICES OF the Beacon weren’t far from those of the Falcon. This newspaper occupied all four floors of a large, prosperous-looking building made of a pale brown brick that showed a gray film of filth near the foundations. I gave a grim smile at the aptness of it.

  We entered, and I asked the clerk at the desk for Mr. Fishel.

  He never looked up from his ledger. “Sorry, miss, he’s busy.”

  Matthew drew a card from his pocketbook and slid it across the wood surface. “He’ll see us,” he said smoothly. “Or I shall take him to the Yard in cuffs. It’ll save time, if we can speak to him here.”

  The man’s eyes darted to the card; his eyebrows leapt up and he hastily pushed Matthew’s card back the way it came. “A’right, guvnor. No need to be tetchy. He’s upstairs, first room on the left.”

  We started up the flight of steps along the wall. The staircase had only a banister to the right, and halfway up, I glanced back and saw the man staring at us and gnawing his lip. I could feel his desire to warn Mr. Fishel, but I glared at him, and he turned away with a shrug.

  As we reached the top of the stairs, we heard the sound of men’s voices shouting and laughing. The door was ajar, and Matthew pushed it open. The creak silenced the three men in the room. They all turned, but it was the man standing behind the desk who said, “What do you want, Hallam?”

  So this was Mr. Fishel.

  I’d imagined him toadlike, but he wasn’t a particularly ugly man. He was of medium height and sturdily built, with round cheeks, brown eyes, and a shock of dark hair running to gray. His expression, however, was repellent.

  One of the other two men chortled. “Well, it’s Scotland Yard payin’ a call. That’s always an int’resting break from routine.”

  “Not to mention the lady,” muttered the third man.

  “He’s too scared to come here by hisself, has to bring an escort,” said the second man laconically. He leered at me as he walked past, and I resisted the urge to shrink away from him. I felt my skirts catch on the cloth of his trousers, and with a sort of half-mocking courtesy, he said, “Good day to you, miss.”

  Matthew shut the door behind them.

  “For Christ’s sake, Hallam. There’s no need for secrecy.” Fishel sat down behind his desk and picked up a pen with an air of weary indifference. “Unless you’re planning to horsewhip me.”

  “I would if I could,” I said.

  His gaze shifted, and his eyebrows rose. “Who the devil are you?”

  “Annabel Rowe. I’m a friend of Felix Severington’s.”

  “Ah.” He sat back a bit. “Well, you might not have liked what I wrote, but we didn’t print anything that wasn’t true.”

  “True in the letter, perhaps,” I retorted. “But you all but ruined his reputation with innuendo and speculation.”

  He turned to Matthew. “Tell her it’s not illegal to propose possible explanations.”

  I took a step toward him. “You’ve deprived him of his position and driven the poor man to despair,” I said incredulously. “Have you no compunction at all? Doesn’t it matter to you how badly you injured him—and without cause?”

  He spread his hands. “It’s my duty to tell the truth as it unfolds.”

  “The truth?” I echoed in disbelief. “You only tell the aspects of the truth that would stir people up. You’re worse than a bloody sensation novelist!”

  He gave a laugh. “Your insult is thrown away on me, my dear. Sensation novelists are highly successful. Have you looked at any of the railway stalls lately? Smith’s isn’t selling sober works of philosophy. They sell what people want to buy. It’s the power of the market—and it’s the very same power your brother listened to. He didn’t try to sell paintings people didn’t want, did he? How could he survive?” A pause. “We’re all selling something, miss.”

  “My brother didn’t drive people to despair with his paintings,” I said between gritted teeth.

  His eyes narrowed. “Well, he caused plenty of people distress when they found they’d bought his worthless copies.” He dropped his chin and looked up at me. “And that’s a crime, miss. What I’ve done isn’t.” He turned to Matthew. “You should have told her. I’ve done nothing against the law. Fully within my rights.”

  “My brother paid for his crime. And you’re vile,” I spat.

  A genuine laugh burst from him. “What’s vile is the corruption and deception of the auction world! You’re just angry because I pointed to the muck sticking to your friend’s shoes.”

  I longed to pick up the inkwell and throw it at his smirking face. “If you’re trying to expose the deceit in the auction world, then at least marshal public venom against the proper person. Felix had nothing to do with the painting’s disappearance. The man who stole it didn’t even know Felix!”

  His eyes narrowed. “But if my story heightens scrutiny toward the auction houses, I’ve provided a service.” Elbows on his desk, he leaned forward and pointed a finger at me, and I noticed how coarse his hands were, how heavy the knuckles. At some point in his life, he’d labored with them. “People like you may not care how corrupt practices plague this bloody city, but the public has a right to know when they’re being swindled. I’ve done my duty getting this story into their hands, and they’re not stupid. They want to hear the truth more than puffery and lies.” He pulled a face and shrugged, giving a sideways glance at Matthew. “Perhaps if we had more information—if the Yard didn’t hide its every move, we wouldn’t be forced to speculate now and again.”

  There was a glint in his eye, and suddenly I understood the larger stakes at hand. Felix had merely been a marker in a game between the police and the popular press.

  The realization left me speechless.

  Matthew approached the desk. “We want an amendment in which you make it clear that neither Edwin Rowe nor Felix Severington had anything to do with that painting going missing.”

  All signs of sardonic humor vanished from Fishel’s face. “You can’t tell me what to write, Hallam. I refuse to print an amendment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because no one’s going to care.”

  Matthew put his two hands on the edge of the desk and leaned in. Fishel didn’t flinch. He was no coward; I’d give him that.

  “Do you think your wife and her father would care to know about Lucille Vesey?” Matthew asked, his voice gentle.

  Fishel’s eyes remained locked on Matthew’s, but I saw a telltale slackening along the newspaperman’s jaw.

  “The French actress
who lives on Partridge Street, second floor?” Matthew continued. “Or perhaps her husband might care.”

  Fishel’s cheeks flamed red. “You’ve been spying on me, Hallam? Creeping around at night, looking through my windows? Is that what you do now?” It came out a snarl.

  Matthew straightened and headed toward the door. He opened it and waved me into the hallway. His hand was still on the knob and he turned back. “Print an amendment,” he said mildly. “And I’ll forget all about her. Otherwise, I think it’s my duty to tell the truth as it unfolds.”

  Chapter 26

  I’d forgotten to close my curtains the night before, and I was roused by the first slant of sun flooding my room.

  With Boulter in custody, I’d returned to my own rooms and my classes at the Slade, and life was gradually reverting to its normal shape. My grief was still present, but it was no longer the same sharp, stabbing pain as it had been, for now it was softened by a profound gratitude that Edwin had had faith I’d do the best I could for him. The brief letter he wrote me was now the most precious thing I owned. I’d tucked it into the corner of my mirror, so I’d see it every morning.

  I rolled over onto my back and listened for the mundane sounds of the world outside rising to my flat, muted by the glass. The clop of a horse’s hooves, the tones of several male voices shouting, the repeated scrape of a shovel against stones, the clunk of a door closing solidly against a wooden frame.

  I pillowed my head on my arms and looked up at the ceiling. It had been over a week since our visit to John Fishel. He had printed the revised story, clearing Felix of any wrongdoing and casting all the blame on Mr. Boulter, whom he described in terms worthy of a villain in one of Mrs. Henry Wood’s sensation novels. Felix was still in the hospital but mending, with respect to both his head and his spirits. I’d received a telegram from Matthew two days ago, to the effect that he would be away at least another week, but Edwin’s case was near completion and we might tell Celia everything when he returned. So yesterday I’d sent a note asking if we might visit her at her sister’s home, and Celia had returned an answer promptly that assured me we’d be welcome. She mentioned she’d visited Felix in hospital and offered him a position in a gallery owned by a friend. She’d also included a ticket to a private art exhibition in a fortnight, with a postscript that made me smile: I do hope you can join me.