by Amy Corwin
“I thought I explained—”
“Didn’t your client explain to you?” Carnaby steepled his hands and rested his index fingers against his mouth. “That is the crux of the matter, is it not? I’ve heard of Second Sons. And that agency was printed on your calling card. Tell me, do you consider yourself an honest man?”
“Honest? Why, yes,” William said, wary of the non sequitur. He hooked his ankle over a knee, barely able to keep from drumming his fingers against his thigh. “Why do you ask?”
“Just to satisfy an old man’s curiosity. Why are these particular papers of such great importance?”
“A life depends upon them,” William said at last, settling on the truth in hopes of obtaining Mr. Carnaby’s cooperation.
“Ah, I see. Yet that remark could be construed in so many ways. An innocent man condemned to hang may depend upon papers to prove his innocence. Destroying rashly written love letters may save the life of a husband, or wife, with a jealous spouse. Military secrets may save, or destroy, hundreds of lives. So, I ask myself, what sort of papers you seek, and whose life might they save?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Or don’t know? Is that the true answer? Perhaps you might be interested in a story, Mr. Trenchard. If you have the time? It starts fourteen years ago, during one of our many wars.”
William refrained from glancing at his watch, but a small frown pinched the skin between his brows. “If you don’t have the box—”
“So impatient…still, Mr. Trenchard, I believe you may find this interesting. Let’s begin my tale like so many others and say that once upon a time, there was a dutiful Englishman who went to war for his country. In the midst of terrible fighting, he discovered there were things even worse than the artillery and guns that can take a man’s leg off more quickly than a tear can fall from an innocent girl’s lashes.”
“I don’t—”
Carnaby held up a hand. “Patience. Let’s say this young man, our erstwhile hero, wrote home to his father and told him something was not quite right. Let’s pretend he was afraid corruption had found a path into the very highest ranks. But then, before our hero could discover the exact nature of the corruption and expose it to the healing sunlight, he died. A tragedy for all, except perhaps those who might profit from secrecy. If indeed there was anything to his words, and they were not just the fevered imaginings of a man exhausted by battle.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was speaking of my son.”
“I apologize, Mr. Carnaby. You have my sympathy,” William said smoothly, wondering where Carnaby was leading him.
He nodded. “Thank you. However, that is not the end of the story, is it?”
“You have the advantage of me, sir. I don’t see what the death of your son—I’m sorry, I understand how terrible that must have been—but I don’t see the connection to the box.”
“Don’t you? The question this raises in my mind is if your client would profit more from disposing of the contents of the box. Or exposing them?”
“My client is unsure of the significance of the papers, if there is any. However, I can say this much. If some injustice has been done, it is not my client’s doing.”
“Then, I repeat, why are the papers important?”
William put both feet on the floor and leaned forward slightly. “This has been interesting, and I’m sorry about your son, but if you no longer have the box, I must do what I can to locate it. Thank you for your time.”
“I don’t believe I ever said I didn’t have the box.”
“You have it?” His pulse leapt.
“Have it and opened it. And I must say I’m relieved I did before selling it to you. There were nearly six pounds inside.” Mr. Carnaby’s eyes twinkled.
“And…nothing else?”
Carnaby struggled to his feet and walked over to one of the bookcases. William stood, while Carnaby pushed some volumes to one side. He drew out the box. Then, he carried it over to his chair and waved impatiently for William to sit again. The box was a lovely pale honey-colored bird’s eye maple with an elegant brass gryphon pierced through the breast by a keyhole.
William fished the key out of his pocket, but again, Carnaby waved impatiently and lifted the lid. Several folded sheets lay inside. Carnaby fished them out and handed the bundle to William.
“There was a false bottom. I confess I had to break it. And I was disappointed when I did. I had hoped the documents would make sense to me. They did not,” Carnaby said. Hesitating only a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, cotton-wrapped object. “And there was this, as well. A locket.”
William took the locket without examining it. Carnaby’s statement strengthened his growing doubt. Carnaby was an extremely intelligent old gentleman. If the papers meant nothing to him, then how could they be anything but worthless to Sarah?
However, despite the apparent uselessness of the documents, William unfolded the top sheet.
Carnaby leaned forward and tapped the edge of it. “That one is a genealogy for the Sanderson family. Pity, that. Entire family perished in a fire in 1806, except for the sister of the marquess, Lady Victoria. Don’t know why it was in the box. The rest, well, I confess I was hoping for something more. They just look like a few bills of lading. Then there is a peculiar list of names, perhaps a pay schedule. I really had such high hopes. A letter to the damn Frenchies or some other treasonable item.”
“The box belonged to the marquess,” William replied absently.
“I see. That explains the genealogy, I suppose.”
A sudden question slipped into William’s mind. “I beg your pardon, but what made you buy this particular box?”
He chuckled. “I would never have known about it, except I happened to develop an interest in a certain party in the Pochard boarding house. She told me about the box. Nearly lost track of it when it was sold for non-payment of rent. However, thankfully my—this party—sent word. I was able to purchase it.”
“Then you knew about the previous owner?”
“Yes, yes,” Carnaby replied impatiently. “A servant or some such who managed to salvage the box after the Elderwood fire. As soon as she—that is, this acquaintance of mine—mentioned the gryphon lock, I knew.” He broke off. A curiously embarrassed look rose over his wrinkled face.
“The gryphon? What is the significance?” he asked sharply.
“My son. My son had just such a box made for him before he joined his regiment. Took it with him. Never saw it again until now.”
What did Carnaby’s son have to do with this affair? Nothing now, if he was truly dead.
William wanted to ask if Carnaby knew Major Pickering, but he hesitated, not sure if he trusted the old man. Carnaby had known about the box from his association with Miss Letty Pochard. He could have tried to murder Sarah to get his hands on the item. Who could say if these papers were the original contents, or substitutes?
What if Carnaby had Major Pickering killed to protect the reputation of Carnaby’s son? It was possible Carnaby’s son had been engaged in illegal activities, discovered by Major Pickering during the war with Napoleon and that Carnaby’s son had deliberately twisted the story to convince his father of his innocence.
Once the possibility occurred to William, the notion grew more insistent. Carnaby’s son may have committed treason. The pieces fit. Major Pickering had found out and worked with the marquess to expose it. But Carnaby, alone or with his father, had killed the marquess, hoping to burn the evidence along with the family.
Afterwards, he must have confessed to his father.
Then, Sarah had shown up in London with Carnaby’s box. And Major Pickering had arrived, close on her heels and ready to reopen the case. So Carnaby had acted swiftly to kill Pickering and Sarah so he could get the box back.
The papers in William’s hands were most likely substitutions and useless.
Unless Carnaby were innocent and the
situation was as he claimed.
Well, the matter would be simple enough to check. William just had to question Sarah.
“What corps was your son in?” William asked.
“The Rifle Corps.”
William folded the papers and tucked them inside his coat. “Is your son buried in London?”
“Anthony? No, Clapham. That’s where our family resides. There’s a headstone there, even if nothing lies below. Damn Frenchies—they wouldn’t even let the dead return for a decent burial. They sunk the ship transporting the wounded and dying. Anthony’s buried at the bottom of the English Channel.”
William studied the old man’s flushed face and glittering, angry eyes. He seemed so honest and genuinely aggrieved over the loss of his son’s mortal remains. The lack of a body, however, was very interesting to William. It seemed to support his theory.
Carnaby might be hiding his son behind the tale of his death.
William’s pulse quickened as his mind sprinted over possibilities. He was so close to a solution—he knew it. This and this alone was why he had given up the status and lotus-eater life of the lay-about aristocracy. Nothing made him feel more alive than the breath of mystery.
But more than anything, he wanted to find justice for Sarah Sanderson and her murdered family.
“One last thing, if you don’t mind. I wonder if I may still purchase the box.” William remembered Sarah’s tale. She had no way of knowing the box originally belonged to Carnaby’s son. Her father had thrust it into her hands, and it was her only possession left from her life before the fire. And judging from the lost look in her gray eyes, it meant a great deal to her.
Carnaby hesitated, running his hands over the smooth, wooden edges. “It was my son’s…”
“Surely you have other reminders?”
“What possible use could it have for you? I gave you the contents.”
“Sentimental value. A reminder of better days for that servant.”
Carnaby coughed. He hummed softly, turning the box this way and that before finally handing it to William. “You show a great deal of concern over a mere servant.”
“I’m being paid well for my concern.”
“Very commendable, I am sure. Well, unless you have more questions, I am afraid I must bid you good day.”
William shook his head and stood.
Still seated, Carnaby eyed him. “Just one more thing—and I shall be happy to pay you for your time—will you let me know if you discover the significance of those papers?”
After brief consideration, William decided there could be no harm in complying. “Most assuredly,” William replied before taking his leave.
Outside, he hesitated, turning his face toward the warming sun. The rays soaked into his skin and melted away a fraction of his tension. Carnaby’s house had been several degrees colder than the temperature outside, which was rising rapidly as the sun drifted toward its zenith. The fresh air awakened his wits. He would speak to the survivors of Anthony Carnaby’s unit, particularly the commanding officer. And then, he would have another conversation with John Archer.
Despite the notion that the villain of the piece might be Anthony Carnaby, there was still the potential that Archer had been an ally of Carnaby’s. The fact that Archer and his wife had conveniently been away from Elderwood during the fire was simply too damning to be ignored.
Not to mention that Archer nearly killed Sarah by throwing a jug of water at her head while someone tried to shoot her. And Anthony Carnaby was in the Rifle Corps. Who better to take that shot from the rear window of an empty townhouse?
Most likely Archer and Carnaby failed to coordinate their efforts. They had had no idea they were working against each other during their opportunistic, and unfortunately simultaneous, attempts against Sarah’s life.
His feet moved of their own volition toward Archer's house on Portman Square.
“Is Mr. Archer at home?” William asked as he removed his hat.
The butler took his hat and waited while William fished a card out of his pocket. He laid it on the silver salver the butler held out for that purpose.
“Yes, sir.” The butler examined the calling card as if he had never seen William before and suspected the calling card to be a fake.
He wondered briefly if the butler would request he use the back entrance like the rest of the tradesmen. However, after a final disdainful sniff, the servant turned away. He drifted up the staircase.
William paced restlessly around the foyer. He stopped a moment to study an English pastoral scene of a stream bubbling through a verdant pasture. A particularly stupid-looking herd of Guernsey cows populated the undulating fields. The bull was the only intelligent-appearing animal, although the clump of clover sticking out of its mouth didn’t appear succulent enough to account for the greedy gleam in its eyes. Maybe the dull-eyed cow nearest the stream accounted for the lascivious look.
“Mr. Trenchard, if you would follow me, please?” The butler plodded back up the stairs in front of William. He moved at such glacial pace that William had to pause after each step to keep from ramming into him from behind.
“Trenchard! What brings you here at this time in the morning?” Archer asked, waving him to sit on one of the sofas flanking the fireplace.
It was rude to pay social calls before noon, but William didn’t particularly care. Truth be told, he rather liked breaking that particular rule. It was one of the few times one could be sure of catching the nobility at home and unprepared.
He drew the packet of papers out of his pocket and set the bundle, along with the box, on the low, japanned table in front of him. “What do you make of these?”
Archer flicked a quick glance at William. Then he scooped up the papers and examined them carefully. He read through them twice before he looked up and noticed the box. “Is that the missing box? Is that where you got these?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you find it? Was it still where Sarah hid it?”
“No. Mr. Carnaby found it after she was arrested.”
“So you got the box and these documents from Carnaby?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure they were the only contents of the box?”
“No. However, I’m hoping Sarah can confirm the contents. So what do you make of the papers?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. A few bills of lading and what appears to be a list of names in a pay schedule. And Sarah’s genealogy. I suppose that’s why my wife’s brother thrust the box into Sarah’s hands. So she would have the marquess’s seal on this document showing her birth.” He sighed. “Not that she needs such proof of her identity. She has the look of the Sandersons—there can be no doubt.”
“You think that's all?”
“Most likely. You must remember the events of the fire. The marquess was trying to save his family and his son’s life. He must have thrust this box into Sarah’s hands in case she became lost in the madness.” He ruffled the papers in his hands. “The invoices and payment schedule just happened to be in there, along with the genealogy. That's all.”
Half afraid Archer would throw the fragile sheets into the fire burning behind him, William held out his hand. Archer refolded the papers carefully. He eyed William before slapping the packet firmly onto his palm.
William sat back and placed the bundle back into the box, keeping a bland expression on his face. If Archer didn’t find the documents important, perhaps they had no value, after all.
“Did you know a man named Major Pickering?” William asked, his eyes studying Archer’s lean face.
“Pickering? I…” He scratched the back of his head. His eyes shifted to the right, focusing over William’s shoulder for a moment before meeting his gaze. “I met him a few times at Elderwood. Why? Has he something to do with this?”
“It would appear so. He was murdered on his way to meet with your niece.”
“Indeed. Interesting.” Archer’s glance dropped to the maple box resting on the t
able between them. “And you got this box from Mr. Carnaby?”
Was it possible that Major Pickering was Anthony Carnaby’s commanding officer? That would fit…
“Yes.” William abruptly changed the subject. “Do you remember what outfit Major Pickering commanded?”
“It's been over thirteen years, lad. I never knew him that well. One of the rifle corps, perhaps. I remember the man wearing a dark green uniform. The rifle corps is one of the few that wear that color. One of my nephews was also in the rifle corps.”
“May I speak to him?”
“I’m afraid not. He died in 1807. However, my niece, Oriana, married a man who may be able to help you.”
“Is he in London? Now?”
“Yes. Lord Dacy.” Archer got up and rang the bell. “Let me leave word for my wife. We can go there directly—if that would suit you?”
William arose. He collected the box and his walking stick, his excitement rising. “Yes, thank you.”
“Think nothing of it. We shall get to the bottom of this mystery.” His brown eyes gleamed with humorous intelligence. “And you might even come to trust me.”
“Anything is possible,” William replied lightly, thinking of Sarah. “Even miracles.”
Far from being insulted, Archer seemed to find this vastly amusing. He chuckled and slapped William on the shoulder before ordering the footman to let Lady Victoria know they were going to visit Lord Dacy.
Collecting his hat from the butler, William followed Archer outside. With Mr. Archer leading the way, William considered his companion. He was a difficult man to read, and he could only hope Lord Dacy was not involved in the original scandal. There were already too many threads running in too many directions.
Fortunately, according to yet another disapproving butler, Lord Dacy proved to be at home. They were early. The approved visiting time would not arrive for several more hours, late enough to provide time for even the most somnolent nobleman to escape the tedium of receiving guests in his own drawing room.
Chuckling at the butler’s expression of distaste, Archer strolled upstairs to a large sitting room as if he was quite at home.
