by Karen Odden
He looked unconvinced.
“Well,” I continued, my tone practical, “I’ve never known you to be fanciful, so I imagine there’s something to whatever you’re seeing. What are the proper facts?”
“You won’t mention it to anyone, of course,” he said hesitantly. “It’s all still a muddle.”
“Matthew! I never do. You know that.”
He balanced his teaspoon delicately on his forefinger and spun it so the silver glinted in the sunlight coming in the window. Once, twice, three times around. Finally, he set it down. “I believe there may be an organized group of very adept thieves that break into houses and shops here in London.”
“Adept,” I echoed. “It sounds as though you admire them.”
“Well”—he gave a hard little smile—“they’re proving a worthy adversary, at any rate.”
I settled back in my chair to listen.
“When I first transferred,” he began, “I saw the thefts around London like everyone else—just a flurry of crime that happens when too many people are crowded together and desperate enough to steal. And the items that were taken varied: jewelry, ivory, handkerchiefs and cloth, fine pens and pipes, silver, money, pieces of porcelain and carvings, even small paintings. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to it.” He leaned in on his elbows, his expression intent. “But when I started reading some of the reports side by side, I noticed the patterns. I saw it first with the houses: the thieves would rob two or three houses in a particular area, and then they’d move on, not coming back for months. But sometimes we missed it because if the houses were in different divisions—say if the street ran from Kensington to Marylebone—the reports from F Division and D Division came in separately.”
“You mean that you have to connect the houses by both date and location,” I said slowly.
He nodded. “From the few witness accounts, I gathered that the thieves worked in small teams—a lockpick, a lookout, and a housebreaker or two. Sometimes they came off the roof from an adjacent house, or up a trellis. Oftentimes, they seemed to know things about the family—when they had dinner, say, or when they were leaving for the theater, which suggested they had watched the house in preparation. But they’re well trained in other ways, too. What made me sure of it were the objects they left behind.”
“You mean things too large to carry?”
“No, Nell. They take the diamonds and leave the paste. They take the silver and leave the plate. They know the difference, as sure as any pawnbroker.”
I stared.
“I didn’t see it in the reports,” he continued, “because of course we don’t tend to note down what wasn’t stolen; in most cases, that would be absurd. But at a burglary on Bedford Square last month, the thief—or thieves—had taken only the real pearls and gold out of the girls’ bedrooms; they left the rest. And they were so unobtrusive that nobody would’ve known it had happened if one of the daughters hadn’t asked the other to return a necklace she’d borrowed.” He shook his head. “When it comes to shops, the thieves take goods that are easy to pawn and hard to trace. As with the houses, they break into two or three shops each night—and don’t go back to the same street for months.”
I frowned, trying to take in the scope of this. “So you think groups of thieves are coordinating their crimes, in some sort of organized circuit all over London?”
He gave me a wry look. “Now you sound like Barrow.”
“Sorry.” I grinned. “I promise I won’t pat you on the shoulder.”
“He says that given the number of thefts in London, it’s easy to select a few particular ones and find a pattern in them. To him, my theory is merely a contrivance—and the more attention I pay to the patterns in my mind, the less likely it is I’ll catch the thieves in front of me.” He shrugged. “He’s so sure, he had me convinced. At first.”
“But not now?”
“No. Last week, I found someone who hinted that I might be right. A man named Powell. He was the one killed near St. Luke’s. Hodges mentioned him.”
“I remember,” I said softly.
“Powell was a star-glazer, someone especially trained to break in through shop windows without shattering the glass. He told me that he belonged to a small group centered in Bethnal Green.” He ran his hands through his hair with a sigh. “It makes me wonder if they’re organized around the rookeries at St. Giles and Seven Dials. Maybe Devil’s Acre as well.”
“Why did Powell confess all this to you?”
He paused, and I sensed he was measuring just how much to tell me. “He is in debt to some dangerous men. He offered to talk if I’d help him and his family stay out of their way.”
I caught my breath. “I—see. Did he say anything else?”
“Not really. But when I asked if there were efforts to coordinate thefts, he didn’t deny it.”
I must have looked skeptical, for he added, rather shortly, “What he said was, he couldn’t tell me any more, or he’d be dead.”
“And then he was killed,” I said slowly.
Matthew’s jaw was tight. “Those dangerous men aren’t known for their patience, and he owed them a great deal.”
“Have you told anyone at the Yard about Powell?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
His eyebrows rose. “And present them with what? The words of a dead man? That’s just hearsay. I’m not going to say another word until I can show some evidence.”
“I understand.” I shifted in my chair. “Do you think there’s a chance someone found out that Powell talked?”
He frowned. “I was careful, same as always. We met in two different places, and I took every precaution to make sure I wasn’t followed. So I doubt it.”
“Powell’s fingers were crushed, weren’t they?” I asked.
“Yes. It seemed punitive—certainly gratuitous, given that he was killed. I haven’t found anyone who can confirm he was a gambler.” He sighed. “Kendrick, the man Hodges came about yesterday morning, never gambled a day in his life. He was a churchgoer, if you can believe it.”
It took a moment for me to absorb the significance of his words—that it hadn’t been Sebastian who’d been killed at the docks. Before Matthew could notice my profound relief, I picked up the newspaper and read the concluding paragraph. “It says that you’re close to finding the killer.”
“We’re not,” he said bluntly. “My guess is they said that so as not to disgrace Barrow. The papers like him.” He glanced up at the clock and shoved away from the table. “I need to go. I’m due there in half an hour.”
I rose as well and followed him into the front hall. “Matthew, if you’re right about this group, and the person who killed these men thinks that you’re getting close—”
“I know.” He took his hat off the rack and turned to me. “I’m being careful, don’t worry. And I’ve been taking extra precautions to be sure that I’m not followed here. I’d never forgive myself if I put you in danger.”
Something caught in my throat at his words, making it impossible to speak. Here he was, doing all that he could to keep me safe. And here I was, putting myself in danger several nights a week.
He smiled, a real smile, and put a reassuring hand on mine. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.” He opened the door and turned back. “But bolt the door behind me.”
THAT AFTERNOON, I went to the hospital again, made my way to Marceline’s bed, and stood by the curtain. The large bandage that had covered both eyes was gone, but her right eye and the area over her right temple were still covered by a thick white patch, and the bandage supporting her jaw remained. I thought that she might be sleeping, but as I stepped closer to the bed, her left eye flickered and she turned toward me.
I had braced myself for this, but still, I had to fight to keep my expression cheerful. Most of her face was badly swollen. The bruises on her forehead and cheeks were plum and greenish yellow. At least the blood was gone from her hair, which had been put into a thick braid. I
was glad the nurses hadn’t done what might have been simpler and cut it all off.
I drew the curtain closed before I approached the bed. I didn’t want anyone to witness our reunion; it would have invited a dozen questions. Bending toward her, I touched her arm, which was one of the few places that seemed unharmed. “Hello, there.”
Her uncovered eye widened in surprise. She recognized me, or almost did. I guessed that she was trying to match my voice to my appearance, for she had never seen me with my hair down or in a dress. She blinked several times, and then a light came into her eye—and I sensed wonder and relief.
I sat carefully on the edge of the bed so as not to jostle her and kept my voice soft. “Marceline, the doctor says you’re not to talk until your jaw heals. So perhaps you could just nod, or shake your head. And if you get tired, don’t worry, I can come back later. All right?”
She nodded almost imperceptibly.
“You’re in a ward in Charing Cross Hospital.” I hesitated, unsure of what I should ask. “Do you remember the night you were brought here?”
A cautious shake of the head, no.
“I was on my way home from the Octavian,” I said, watching her for any sign of distress. “It was quite late, and I found you in an alley. You’d been badly hurt, so I hired a cab and brought you here.” I paused. “You don’t remember any of it?”
There was a long pause, and then I thought I saw a look of dawning memory.
“I couldn’t stay,” I continued, “but I made sure you were brought safely inside by the night guard. And I brought you here because Dr. Everett is a family friend. His specialty is brain and head injuries. It was the best I could think of.”
The look in her eye softened with what seemed like gratitude.
“But Dr. Everett doesn’t know that I know you,” I said. “He doesn’t know I play the piano at the Octavian—he would never approve—and he doesn’t know it was I who brought you here. Do you understand?”
A small nod.
“Do you know who did this to you?” I ventured. “Did you see them?”
It had been on the tip of my tongue to remind her that my brother was a policeman and might be able to bring them to justice, but the fear that sprang into her eye warned me against it. She flinched under the covers, and I could almost sense her pulse beginning to race. “It’s all right,” I said quickly. “You don’t need to think about that now.” I tried another topic, something more pleasant: “I’m sure you’ll want to see Sebastian. Do you know where I can find him?”
But this seemed only to terrify her further. She gave a low, guttural cry from the back of her throat, her entire body went rigid, and a sheen of perspiration broke out on her upper lip.
Dismayed, I said, “Marceline! Please, don’t upset yourself.” I laid my hand on her arm. “I only want to help, honestly. I won’t do anything without asking you first, I promise.”
Slowly, the tension in her frame began to abate. “I haven’t told the doctor who you are,” I murmured. “I wasn’t sure if it was safe. Do you want me to tell him?”
A tiny but definite shake of the head. I wished she had said yes. But I swallowed that down. “Then I won’t.” She simply stared, her dark eye wide, and I sensed there was something she urgently wished to convey.
“I know it’s frustrating that you can’t speak,” I said sympathetically. “But Dr. Everett said it should only be a few days. And at least you’re safe here. I wanted you to know that much. When you’re ready, I’ll do anything I can to help you. All right?”
A small crease formed at the corner of her eye, a hint of what would have been there if she’d smiled. I leaned over and kissed her forehead gingerly, to the side of the bandage. “Get some rest,” I whispered and left the room.
I met Dr. Everett in the hallway just outside the ward. “Why, Nell. Good of you to come. How did she seem to you?”
“She’s frightened. But I told her where she was and reassured her that she was safe. She seemed to understand.” I paused. “I said I’d come back when she’s able to talk. She seemed to appreciate that.”
He nodded, satisfied. “If she can trust someone here, it’s more likely she’ll accept treatment. That’s all we can hope for at this point.”
We bid each other goodbye, and I turned away, feeling uncertain that I’d done the right thing in promising to withhold Marceline’s name, for I knew that Dr. Everett always put the patient’s best interest first. I consoled myself with the thought that Marceline would soon be able to speak for herself.
I made my way back to the front door and onto the footway that bordered Agar Street, mulling over Marceline’s expressions and gestures. She was clearly against the idea of me contacting Sebastian, from which I gathered that she didn’t want him to know where she was. But why?
A sudden thought stopped me cold: Was Sebastian the one who had done this to her?
Every instinct I had said it couldn’t be. Yes, Sebastian was physically powerful enough to inflict this sort of injury; I’d seen his taut body arc and somersault in the air and watched him catch his sister, bearing both her weight and his with only one hand. But from what I’d seen, the two of them seemed intensely protective of each other. Wasn’t the trapeze act itself a testament to the trust that was between them?
But perhaps it was precisely that—an act, with the trust merely an artifice that vanished offstage, like Amalie’s French accent.
Chapter 6
It was Monday afternoon. I’d been at the piano for nearly six hours, and practicing was going badly. I found myself distracted—by thoughts of the audition, nine days away; of Marceline, mute and fearful; of Matthew, upon whom the long hours were beginning to tell. That morning at breakfast, he had darkening circles under his eyes and a hoarse cough from all the hours in the nighttime air.
I played the same measures of the Chopin over and over, working hard to find the proper touch in D-flat major for the arpeggios, those delicate downward flutters of notes like clear water over stones. But the harder I tried, the more muddy and murky the measures became—and at the next chord, I heard the ping of a broken string.
I let out a cry of frustration.
“Nell. Please. Stop.”
The words came like three semibreve notes held overlong, as if there were fermatas over them. I twisted around to see Dr. Everett standing on the threshold with an expression of shock and worry that made him look years older than he was. I felt my mouth go dry. After a long moment, I said, “I didn’t know you were there.”
“Peggy let me in. She was leaving for an errand.” His voice was toneless. “I’m sure you didn’t even notice her departure. You were”—a pregnant pause—“perilously engaged in your Chopin.”
I winced. “Yes, I was engaged. But not perilously so. I was just playing.”
He came toward me swiftly, abandoning all pretense of calm, and fixed me with his gaze. “Just playing?” His voice was ragged. “You looked positively fierce, Nell! You should have seen your face. And the tilt of your head, the curve of your body over the keyboard—it’s exactly like hers! When I came in, I thought I was seeing a ghost.” He rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead. “I had no idea you were playing in such a way. But then again, I haven’t heard you in years.”
“I play at the hospital sometimes,” I said defensively.
He glared at me. “Soothing melodies for the benefit of the patients! And Christmas carols to raise funds! Don’t pretend you don’t know the difference.” He shook his head in disbelief. “God only knows what a piece like that is doing to your brain! It’s violent.”
It’s not violent, I thought. It’s passionate and magnificent.
But I knew he said this out of concern, a concern I’d accepted gratefully for years, understanding that he had felt partially responsible for Matthew and me after my mother left.
I rose from the piano bench. “It’s just one day of practice that didn’t go well. It’s not usually like this.” When he didn’t answer, I ad
ded in a more conciliatory tone, “I know you’re worried. But only half of my brain is my mother’s. And thanks to you and—and Father, I’ve had a logical education to balance me, and I—I know what to look for.”
He threw up his hands. “That’s absurd! No brain can examine itself objectively!” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “That piano is a dangerous partner for you, Nell. And I think you’re being willfully obtuse about it—not to mention deceitful.”
Stung, I drew back and remained silent as I fought down waves of hurt and mortification. He bit his lip, recovering his composure. Then, as if he’d made up his mind about something, he removed his coat, went to Matthew’s usual chair, and gestured for me to take the one opposite. “Please, Nell.”
I did as he asked, bracing myself for a stern lecture.
He began, in a voice laden with sorrow more than anger, “I believe this is in part my fault.” In my surprise, I said nothing, and after a moment, he added, “My fault that you don’t fully understand the danger that you are in.”
I opened my mouth, and he raised a hand to stop my protest. “Oh, I know you’ve read the scientific papers. And I’ve observed you over the years as you have learned to mitigate your feelings so that you show less than you feel and perhaps even feel less than you might.”
Somewhat mollified, I nodded.
“When you were younger, you took it on faith that I knew what was best for you. But now that you are nearly grown”—he stopped himself with a wistful expression—“I beg your pardon, you are grown. But as you were a child for so much longer than you’ve been a woman, it’s not been my habit to think of you as such. I daresay in my mind, you are still thirteen, or thereabouts.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I daresay there’s parts of me that are still much as they were at thirteen.”
He looked rueful. “Not many, my dear. But I see now that I have done you a disservice. I believe I was right to provide you first with medical information about your mother’s disease—scientific theories and abstract generalities—but at some point I should have shared the specifics of your mother’s condition. Yes,” he said heavily. “I see now that I was wrong not to tell you.”
