Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Alex grunted. "You're delusional. I would never have done business with that sniveling brother of yours." It was true. She knew it. There was hate in his voice. And that puzzled her. Her mind raced.

  "After you're used up from whoring, I think an asylum will suit you. You'll still be my wife, after all."

  "You're not the lead dog in the pack, are you? You're more a lapdog for the Pacific-Union Club. The railway has enemies."

  "You think you're clever? You think you can threaten me?"

  She cocked her head. Why had he thought it a threat? "I can help you, Alex," she ventured.

  "The only help I want from you is my husbandly due. And if you think I'll treat you like a lady this time around, you'll be sorely mistaken." With every word, he neared. He lunged, reaching for her hair, and she let him have it. The wig came off, and he stuttered in surprise. The moment cost him dearly. Isobel grabbed him by the lapels, yanked him forward, and twisted to the side. His groin hit the corner of the desk.

  Alex Kingston bent over double, puffing out his cheeks.

  "How careless of you," she said, opening her cigarette case. "Your first mistake was to think me a lady. And here is your second." She slapped the red token on the desk, under his eyes. "I know far more than you think. I know this plague will hit the Big Four in the same place that the desk just hit you."

  Eyes blazing, he straightened, ignoring the token. She had hoped to see fear in his eyes, but there was only fury.

  Alex wrenched the door open. "Spreckles! I want this woman fired immediately."

  "Of course, Mr. Kingston."

  Alex turned back to her. "Bring your things home tonight. Otherwise, I'll make good on my threats."

  Without another word, he limped out.

  Isobel blew out a breath, and picked up her wig. Gathering her dignity, she ignored the closest exit, and walked through the corral. Bruises, bloody lip, and a wig in hand. All eyes bore witness. She wondered if anyone would dare testify against Alex Kingston.

  Isobel was as good as ruined.

  25

  Shattered

  The signal was simple: a bit of silk tied around the grocer's delivery. And for me: two lights left on in my conservatory.

  —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  ATTICUS RIOT STOPPED UNDER a lamp post. He cocked his head, listening. Muted voices drifted from a waterfront saloon, but there was no patter of footsteps. No one was following him in the fog. He stood for a few more breaths before walking onto the wharf.

  The surf lapped at pilings under his feet. A few lanterns bobbed in the murk, but most of the boats were only dark shapes in the water. Secured, scrubbed, and moored for the night, their crews were spending earnings in saloons and bagnios.

  A swift shadow moved from behind a storage shed. Riot reached for his revolver, but stopped. The shadow gave a plaintive meow.

  "Did you follow me from home?"

  Watson wrapped around his legs. His meow sounded suspiciously like an affirmative answer. Riot had been tailed after all. By an expert.

  The cat bumped his leg, nudging him towards what Riot feared might be the end of the dock. When Watson was sure he had Riot's attention, he darted away.

  Light was useless in this murk; it only scattered the beam. As a child he had become accustomed to trusting his keener senses more than his myopic eyes. He was at home in fog. He strode along the dock, using his walking stick to search for the edge. He found Watson waiting patiently by a ladder.

  He and Isobel had planned to meet at Ravenwood Manor after her visit to the Call. But the sun had dropped and dinner had passed, and she hadn't appeared. The Shadow had unnerved him. After he'd checked at Sapphire House, he decided to head to the Pagan Lady. He only hoped the boat was moored in the same place.

  He climbed onto a trawler, and untied its dinghy. After Watson hopped into the stolen boat, he picked up the oars, and trusted to his sense of direction. The bay was cold and still, and water lapped at the hull. He glanced over his shoulder. A dark shape loomed in the fog.

  Riot pulled alongside the formless shape. Wood bumped wood, and he ran his hand along the hull. The Lady's curves were as familiar to him as her captain's.

  "Ahoy there." His voice bounced over the water and was crushed by fog.

  Watson leapt aboard. After securing the dinghy, Riot followed. "Ahoy?" he called again.

  A cat answered.

  The padlock was missing from the hatch. He drew his No. 3, and opened it. Watson darted into darkness. The cat called from the cabin's depths.

  The cabin smelled of salt and emptiness. It was dreadfully cold. Riot paused at the lantern, and struck a match. Soft light flooded the saloon. A lump lay on the berth, and a bare foot stuck from beneath a blanket. The dainty foot and thin ankle made his breath go still. It looked lifeless.

  Riot hurried forward. "Bel?"

  "Go away," she croaked.

  "Are you ill?" He nudged down the blanket, and placed a hand on her forehead. It was cold rather than hot. She jerked away from his touch, and pulled the blanket firmly over her head.

  "Go away," she growled again. But it sounded more like a plea.

  Riot considered the lump, glanced at the pile of clothing on the floor, and then looked to the galley. "Have you eaten anything today?"

  No answer. Watson threaded his bulky body between Riot's legs, his purr filling the saloon. "Well, I haven't either."

  Hanging up his coat, Riot unbuckled his holster, rolled up his sleeves, and set to work. After lighting a fire in the potbellied stove, he turned to the galley.

  His movements were pure instinct, born from months spent at sea with an old cook from Canton. As a young man between hay and grass, Riot had worked alongside him. The old man's voice came to his ears from the past. At first, it seemed senseless babble. But slowly a rhythm emerged; the rhythm turned to tones; the tones slowly gave way to understanding, until the boy who had been Riot began to answer in the cook's own Cantonese tongue.

  A feline inquiry interrupted his memories. "I'm sure she'll be all right." He set down a bowl of water. The feline looked insulted. "I'm afraid I don't have shrimp today, Watson."

  The cat's eyes narrowed. He swiveled on his paws, and returned to his mistress, curling atop the lump.

  While rice was cooking on the stovetop, Riot carried a cup of steaming tea to the table. He added a plate of apples, cheese, and crackers. It was not the most tempting meal, but the ship's stores were low. Food was always an afterthought for Isobel, as if she forgot her brilliant mind was attached to a body. Riot nudged her foot aside and sat, then pulled it back onto his lap.

  "I'm in no mood." Her bite was muffled by the blanket.

  "Your foot is cold."

  He expected her to toss the blanket aside, and give him hell. But she didn't stir. She didn't even reply, and that was the most worrying of all.

  Riot ate in silence, and then reached for a book. As the cabin warmed, he read, his left hand rubbing the cold foot on his lap. Slowly, it warmed under his touch.

  After a time, he heard a sigh. "Just go, Riot. It will pass," she murmured. "That's what I keep telling myself, anyway."

  Ordinarily, he would not ignore a request from a lady. But this was different. She was different. He recalled the words of her murderous brother Curtis. Bursts of energy and wild ideas, followed by foul moods and long stretches of solitude. As vile as that particular brother had turned out to be, perhaps there was truth to his words. Lotario had hinted at the same. A 'brown study' worthy of the Great Detective.

  "I am tired of myself tonight. I should like to be somebody else," he quoted from the book in his hand. The words rang true. For both of them. He could not shake the memory of being carried into a coffin shop and left for dead. Why had the vagrant in that alleyway helped him three years before? Why had he gone to all the trouble of carrying him to an undertaker?

  "I've tried that. It doesn't work."

  The words knocked him back to the present. "It never does," he whispered.<
br />
  Isobel nudged the blanket down. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm splendid. That's why I keep a painting of myself in a locked room."

  "What does it look like today?" she asked.

  He glanced at her. A single eye stared at him from the blanket.

  Riot pulled his tie free, removed his collar, and tossed them on the table. "Shaken. Exhausted. Worried."

  The eye narrowed. "What happened?"

  "A memory," he said softly. "Of someone carrying me into a coffin shop." He shook his head in frustration. "It spooked me enough that I left the shop before properly questioning the undertaker."

  Isobel shifted, reaching for his hand. Her touch eased his worry.

  "I'll return with you tomorrow. We can question him then."

  "I'm afraid that ship has sailed. I made the mistake of introducing myself. I suppose I should add 'fool' to the painting."

  "Promise me you won't add 'fury' to your list?"

  He cocked his head in question. Isobel dragged herself upright, keeping her foot in place. The breath caught in his throat, then came fury—the cold, dangerous kind. It flicked his heart to racing. Swollen and bruised cheek, a split lip, and angry bruising around her throat. She had cut her hair again, butchered it, more like, and dyed it a severe black. But it was her eyes that struck him most. Dull and gray, all the life had left them. She looked defeated.

  Swallowing down his reaction, he kept his voice light. "You entered a prizefight, lost, and had a blind barber cut your hair?"

  Not even a smile.

  "I was going to sail away." The words were pained, her eyes shimmered. "I couldn't do it." He handed over her tea, and she accepted it, warming her hands on the cup. "You should just leave now."

  Contrary to her words, she hadn't taken her foot away, so he listened to her body.

  Isobel took a shaky breath. "I thought we'd have our fun, and you'd get tired of me and move on."

  His fingers stilled. "What happened, Bel?"

  "I'm trouble, Riot. Pure trouble. What if I'm with child? With Alex's child?"

  "Are you with child?" he asked softly.

  She lifted a shoulder. "I honestly don't know. Years ago, a doctor in Europe told me it was unlikely that I would ever have children, but Dr. Wise hinted at the possibility when he examined me."

  Riot took a breath. "I've already considered the possibility. You were married for two months."

  Isobel set aside her tea. "Of course you have." She ran her hands through her butchered hair, and dug her nails into her scalp, holding her head there. "You'd be saddled with another man's child."

  "I've yet to meet an infant who could make me turn coward and run." She tucked her feet in and scooted to the end of the berth. There was a time and place for humor. This wasn't it. "As a bastard myself, it's never much mattered to me. A child is still a child."

  She swallowed. "Yes, I know. I heard you with the children the other night. You're wonderful with them. It's plain you care for them. What do you possibly see for our future? Do you expect children from me? I'm no mother to be tied to a home. So before the heartache, before whatever comes between us… You should leave now."

  Riot considered her in silence, and came to one conclusion: Isobel was terrified. "Through any storm that comes our way," he said softly. The words she had uttered to him two weeks ago. "I'm not abandoning ship."

  "I don't see a horizon."

  Her hopelessness stabbed his heart. He brushed a cat hair from his trousers, and kept his voice casual. "You know, I never thought I'd make it to forty. I had never even seen a horizon until I met you."

  "But you deserve more—not a barren woman or another man's child."

  Riot looked into her eyes. "The only thing I want is to wake up beside you every morning."

  Isobel hugged herself, clutching her elbows.

  "I have the distinct feeling you're trying to drive me away. I'll leave if you insist, but it won't be willingly. Child or no, I'm not going anywhere."

  It was on the tip of her tongue to send him away. But she didn't speak the word. She couldn't order him to leave. "I'm only trying to save you," she whispered.

  "Did someone threaten to kill me again?"

  "Something like that."

  He waited for more, but when none came, he made his own deductions. The bruises, the split lip, her despair. "Alex confronted you today."

  Isobel took a deep breath—the gasp of a drowning woman. "At the Call. In the editor's office. He swore to ruin me, and my family, and to have you killed if I didn't go back to him tonight. I was fired on the spot."

  A muscle in his jaw twitched.

  "You cannot storm into his home with guns blazing."

  Riot tore his gaze from his holstered revolver hanging on a hook. "I admit, that was my first thought." To ease her fears, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, tossed it across the way, and slipped his shoes off. "Better?"

  Two tears slipped down her cheeks. Isobel tried to keep them at bay, but the moment he reached across the space, she lost her thread of control. Isobel buried herself in his arms as emotion shook her body. As quickly as the storm came, it passed, leaving her quiet and still.

  Riot handed her a handkerchief.

  "I broke two of his fingers and ran his testicles into a desk," she said between nose blowing.

  Riot pressed his lips to her temple. "I'd wager on you in any fight."

  She pulled back to meet his eyes. "It was reckless. I lost any advantage I had by showing my true self."

  "You may have shaken him."

  "A wounded bull is a fearsome thing."

  "It's wounded. That's what counts."

  "Unfortunately, that's not the only reckless thing I did."

  The edge of Riot's lip twitched. "I'm hardly surprised." Before she could explain, he held up a hand. "Eat first, then tell me. And after, I have news of my own."

  To his relief, she ate a bowl of rice, most of the cheese and apples, and settled back with her tea. As her fingers traced the contours of the chipped teacup, she told him everything that had happened.

  "How curious," he mused when she fell silent.

  "I thought so too," she admitted. "I had hoped to see fear in his eyes when I laid that token down, but he barely glanced at it."

  "It was a risk."

  "A thoughtless one."

  "Aren't they all?"

  "Mine, perhaps. You seem to be more of a calculating risk taker."

  Riot flashed his chipped teeth. "Your instincts are incomparable, but your judgment is sorely lacking."

  "Ravenwood wrote that about you."

  "And he reminded me of it often enough." He nodded towards the book he had been reading: The Portrait of Dorian Gray. "Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes."

  "Then I'm full to bursting with experience. And I'm only twenty-one."

  "We learned something though. It's doubtful that Kingston knows the token's significance."

  "We don't precisely know what it means."

  "We have an idea."

  She stared into the dregs of her teacup. "When I saw him at the inquest… I felt sick. I saw my failure. I couldn't do it, Riot. When I was pretending to be someone else—his delicate society wife—I couldn't continue the ruse a moment longer. Other women pretend to love men all the time, but this… It felt wrong."

  "That's not a bad thing, Bel."

  "The one time I develop a conscience." She gave a bitter laugh. Another tear slipped free, and she scrubbed at her cheeks with her palm. "I didn't know who I was when I was with him. I was unraveling. And now the pieces don't fit. Maybe he wasn't the cause of my father's misfortune. Maybe it was Curtis all along."

  "Only a few hours ago, he threatened to ruin you and your family. I'd say that's fairly incriminating."

  "It doesn't do us a lick of good. The editor didn't even ask why I was being fired. There was no hesitation. Alex controls the newspapers, and I have no reason to doubt his other words. He has judges and the police i
n his pocket."

  Riot's gaze was drawn to his revolver. A noose around his neck would be a small price to pay for Isobel's safety. But it was easy to die for someone; it was much more difficult to live for them.

  "I can't see a way out of this."

  "We'll manage," he said softly.

  "How?" she demanded.

  Riot removed his spectacles to polish the lens. "We'll run away and join a circus."

  Isobel closed her eyes. A smile tugged at her lips, and she started to laugh. More tears leaked from her eyes, but it was more release than despair. Riot set aside his spectacles, and took her in his arms. They stretched along the settee, and he tugged a blanket over their bodies.

  "I don't think you have a future as a barber," he whispered into her hair.

  "It's horrid," she agreed. "Ari is going to kill me. I'm surprised the sight of it wasn't enough to drive you away."

  "You could take a razor to it, and I'd still be here."

  "Yes, well, it helps that you're half-blind without your spectacles."

  He smiled, and kissed her ear. "I've always enjoyed a more tactile approach."

  Isobel turned in his arms, and stroked his beard. "Before you distract me, what news do you have?"

  With every word that left his lips, Isobel sat up straighter with alarm. "What did the old man say?" she asked at last.

  "The old man recognized the health officer. It was Andrew Ross—who ran with the most hated policeman in Chinatown. The old man said Ross was lurking around the Globe Hotel, checking for sleeping laborers. Bullying them, if they made a fuss."

  Her eyes narrowed. "We have to find William Punt."

  "Yes."

  26

  The Storm

  Tuesday, April 17, 1900

  MURMURS TRAVELED AROUND THE court. Reporters scratched furiously, and a few darted out to send messengers running to editors.

  The defense stared at the witness. "Mr. Riot. You're claiming that the bubonic plague was manufactured by Parker Gray, Andrew Ross, and William Punt?"