Silence in the Library

by Katharine Schellman

  “Well, Captain,” he said at last. “I need to ask for your assistance once more. Tonight.”

  Hartley’s heels hit the floor with a thud as he sat up, his smile grim.

  Once upon a time, Simon had been fooled by the captain’s air of flippancy, assuming that his personality went no deeper than the good humor he usually displayed. And as the son of a wealthy family who had prospered in naval service under his own merit, he did often seem like one of those individuals who danced through life with few cares and fewer consequences.

  But any man who had seen war firsthand and survived had more to him than good humor. And while the captain could, on occasion, be as stiff-necked as Simon himself, his easy manner hid a keen intellect and a willingness to go to great lengths to help those he considered friends.

  “I am at your service, of course. With what do you need my assistance? Something underhanded, I hope.”

  Simon glanced out the window. The sun would be setting soon. “Following Percy Wyatt.”

  “Excellent.” The captain rubbed his hands together. “This should be fun.”

  CHAPTER 19

  More than five hours later, even the captain had to admit that it was not fun.

  “I thought you had done this sort of thing before,” Simon whispered. “For Mrs. Adler.”

  “It was daytime then,” the captain said, his words barely audible though he stood only a few feet away. His sigh, however, was quite clear. “And it was not raining.”

  It wasn’t precisely raining now. But about an hour before, the air had grown suddenly cool, ushering in a misting drizzle that wouldn’t have felt heavy if they had been heading someplace indoors. But standing in the shadows of a London night, even that light mist was too much. Simon could feel water soaking through the collar of his coat where it turned up around his neck, and he could see drops falling from the edge of his hat. He envied the captain his thick driving coat, with its layers of capes on the shoulders to shed the rain.

  A flash of light from a door opening and closing caught the edge of the captain’s silver flask as he passed it to Simon, who accepted it gratefully. He swallowed a quick mouthful of liquor to warm himself before handing it back.

  He sighed. “If I’d known the weather would turn like this, I wouldn’t have suggested we both come out tonight. But I thought two sets of eyes and feet would make it easier to follow him.”

  “They will,” Hartley said mildly, taking his own sip before stowing the flask once more. “If he goes anywhere.”

  He clearly was not enjoying himself, but there was nothing resentful in his tone. Simon felt unexpectedly relieved. He had been half worried that the captain would decide to give up on their watch and take himself off somewhere drier and warmer. Which would have left Simon alone, in the rain, wondering if he should have listened to the rest of the Bow Street force and let the Wyatt case go. With Hartley sticking it out by his side, it was easier to feel confident that he wasn’t making a foolish decision to keep going.

  “Besides,” the captain added. “It is actually three sets. I’ve set Jem to keep watch on the back of the house, just in case Wyatt goes out that way.”

  “It doesn’t look like he’s going much of anywhere tonight,” Simon said, wiping rain from the back of his neck. It was too dim in the alley where they were huddled to check his pocket watch, but he knew it had to be after midnight. “We’ll give it another ten minutes. Then I’ll try again—” He broke off abruptly. “What was that?”

  The sound of a cur dog barking three times echoed down the street again, followed by the screech of a cat. It sounded like nothing more than two angry animals, but the captain was suddenly alert.

  “That’s Jem’s signal,” he murmured. “These boys from the Seven Dials know all about keeping a low profile at night. Someone is coming out the back.” The dog barked again, twice this time. “Coming this way.”

  It was too dark to see the face of the man who came around the front of the lodging house. Simon wanted to believe it was Percy Wyatt, but in a lodging house full of young men with plenty of money—or at least plenty of willing creditors—there were any number of residents who might decide to head out in search of entertainment at midnight, even on a night as dismal as this one. He turned to the captain, who was dressed with the unmistakable flair of a gentleman. Hartley gave a quick nod, then strolled easily out into the street, swinging his walking stick and whistling, his hat shadowing his face.

  “Good evening,” the man in front of the lodging house said politely.

  “Sir.” Hartley had given his voice a slightly hoarser sound than it usually had, and he offered the man a bare nod. They continued past each other without pause.

  As the man strode off down the street at a brisk pace, the captain made a large circle, coming back to where Simon still waited. “That was him,” he said, shrugging out of his overcoat. Underneath, he wore a simpler jacket in a dark color. He gave a sharp whistle, and a moment later Simon heard running footsteps as the boy Jem dashed around the corner and came panting toward them.

  “Was that ’im, sir?”

  “Yes. Well spotted, lad.” Hartley handed him the bundled coat. “Now get home before you catch a chill, or Mrs. Adler will give both of us an earful.”

  Not having the driving coat would make him stand out less, and giving it up meant that if Percy Wyatt did spot them, he’d be less likely to recognize a man he had already passed once that evening. Simon was impressed at the captain’s forethought, but he still gestured at the coat. “You’ll get wet without it.”

  Hartley shrugged. “Shall we follow?”

  Percy Wyatt had already reached the end of the street. Keeping to the shadows, they went after him.

  * * *

  “Mrs. Adler.”

  Lily set the book she was reading down in her lap, regarding her butler with surprise. Carstairs, always a model of propriety, almost never sought her out in her own room, preferring instead to send Anna. But now he was standing in the doorway, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

  “What is it?”

  “You have … a rather insistent visitor downstairs.”

  Lily’s eyes widened as she glanced at the clock on her mantelpiece. The candles were drawn close to the chair where she was reading, and the dim light of the fire didn’t quite fill that side of the room. But she could make out easily enough that it was far too late for callers.

  If it had been someone unknown to him, Carstairs would have sent the caller on his way. Which meant that, if it was someone asking for her and not for her father, it was likely Jack. He often came by for a drink or a hand of cards if neither of them had evening engagements. But it was far too late for such a call.

  Lily scowled. She had once had stern words with Jack about turning up on her doorstep too late at night, and she had expected him to respect that. Lily might push the bounds of proper behavior, but only on her own terms. And certainly not when any neighbor peeking out the front window might see.

  “He seems to be somewhat in his cups,” Carstairs added apologetically.

  If her butler hadn’t been standing right there, Lily would have muttered several choice words, none of them fit for polite company. But she would save those for Jack himself. Setting her book aside, glad she hadn’t yet changed for bed, she slid her feet into the shoes she had tossed aside and strode toward the door, her face set in displeasure. Carstairs stepped nimbly aside, then followed her down, keeping up easily with her long-limbed, angry pace.

  “He is in the drawing room.”

  Lily had been about to head to the book-room, where she and Jack often sat together. Frowning but not thinking anything of it, she changed direction and stalked toward the drawing room, throwing the door open. “Jack, what do think you are—”

  Frank Wyatt turned quickly toward her, listing slightly to one side before he managed to right himself. “Hello, Lily. How about another game of cards?”

  “Frank.” Lily stared. “What the hell are you doi
ng here?”

  The smile he gave her was wobbly. Even in the dim light, she could see drops of rain sparkling in his hair and dampness dotting the shoulders of his coat. He held his hat and gloves in his hands. “I needed a friend tonight. I thought you and your father might—”

  “My father has already gone to bed.”

  “Really?” Frank swayed a little as he turned to look at the window, but the curtains were already drawn. He hiccupped quietly. “Is it as late as that?”

  Lily sighed. “Carstairs, do you know if there is any coffee in the house?”

  “I shall investigate,” he said gravely, withdrawing with a bow.

  He left the door open, which made Lily feel both relieved and chagrined. She hid her discomfort by scowling at Frank. “Sit. He will fetch some coffee, and then you will leave.”

  “I apologize.” Frank took a seat, almost missing the edge of the chair before he righted himself, then set his hat down on a side table, laying his gloves on top with the careful precision of a man who had just realized he was less sober than he believed. “I just—I needed to—”

  Lily took pity on him. She sat as well, close enough to reach out and take his hand. And close enough, she discovered, to smell the sweet tang of the rum he had apparently been pickling himself in. “What happened?”

  He shuddered. “A maid died.”

  Lily almost told him that she knew before she caught herself. She had been sitting with her guilt and anger over Ellen’s death all day; it was hard to remember that she wasn’t supposed to know about the girl’s death at all. “Is that what your brother meant when he said someone was gone?”

  Frank gave her what might have been a sharp look if he hadn’t had to blink at her so many times. “You saw Arthur? Yes.”

  “When I was with Lady Wyatt,” Lily said. “Did you … do you suspect anything …”

  “That constable does, in spite of what the doctor said,” Frank said bitterly, his hand tightening around hers. “I think he believes … Lily, I think he suspects that I … that I was the one who …” It seemed he couldn’t bring himself to say it. His grip on hers was almost painful. “You know I loved my father, don’t you, Lily?”

  “It is the constable’s job to suspect everyone,” she pointed out, though she tried to make the words sound soothing. “And I know Mr. Page is a respectable man who only cares about doing his work well.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes at her. “You seem to have a high opinion of him. Does that mean you know him more closely than you let on?”

  “No, of course not,” said Lily. She had meant to comfort him, but she didn’t want him suspecting that she was at all involved with Mr. Page’s investigation. She quickly changed tactics. “You were gone all night, were you not, when your father died? So why should you think he still suspects you?”

  “I wish I knew what he was thinking,” Frank said bitterly, pulling away and dropping his face into his hands. He kept speaking, though his words were more muffled now. “Maybe a servant told him something, I don’t know. And there are rumors about Arthur now; have you heard those? I don’t want to believe them—he’s my brother, you know, I love him—but perhaps he did. The doctor and the constable both seem suspicious of him. And it was his maid who died, after all. Perhaps I do need to send him away, where someone can look after … And maybe he did—God above, I just don’t know.” He lifted his head. “I wish someone could tell me what to do.”

  Carstairs arrived at that moment with a tray of coffee, and Lily was glad for the interruption. Frank had dropped his head back in his hands, so he didn’t see the butler’s stiff posture as he prepared a cup. But Lily noticed, and she caught the worried frown gathering between Carstairs’s eyes as he hovered near the door, clearly reluctant to leave her alone.

  “Thank you, Carstairs,” she said, giving him a reassuring nod. “I am sure Mr. Wyatt will be departing shortly.”

  “Madam.” He bowed, giving Frank one more skeptical look before withdrawing.

  “Have some coffee, Frank,” she urged.

  It took a little persuading, but at last he did, and the hot, bitter brew seemed to calm him down. He took only a few sips, but he looked more alert and less unsteady.

  He was able to meet her eyes again as he put the cup down. “I am behaving very badly,” he said quietly, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “It has been an awful week for you,” Lily said, offering the excuse gently. “I think you are allowed a moment or two of bad behavior.”

  “Awful. Yes, it has been that. And unbelievable.” Frank shook his head. The serious conversation seemed to be sobering him up. He glanced down at his hands, then looked up, offering her a crooked smile. “We are old friends, are we not?”

  They had never been friends. The four years between them had felt like a chasm when they were young. And Mr. Pierce’s obvious preference for Frank’s company—combined with Frank’s outgoing personality that was so different from Lily’s own cautious, private one—had made her uninterested in his company, even when they were older. But now was not the time to point out that friendly was not the same thing as being friends.

  “Of course we are,” she agreed, leaning forward and setting her hand on his.

  “Then you would tell me, wouldn’t you?” He turned his hand over to grip hers, his smile fading as his eyes fixed on hers with unnerving intensity. “If you had heard anything? If you had seen anything?”

  Lily wanted to pull her hand away. She thought of the time she couldn’t explain, between leaving him and meeting Lady Wyatt on the stairs, nearly twenty minutes of creeping through his house to confirm that his brother’s maid had been poisoned. But she stayed very still and gave him a puzzled smile instead. “What could I possibly have heard or seen?”

  “I don’t know.” Frank’s expression was both lost and hopeful as he shrugged. “People talk. And you notice things, I think. You know that Bow Street man.”

  Lily weighed her options, then decided the risk was worth it. “The only thing I have heard, Frank, is rumors about your father,” she said gently. After all, it wasn’t quite a lie—she had heard it directly from the gossiping ladies in the confectioner’s shop. “Do you know there is talk that he had a natural child tucked away somewhere?”

  “What?” Frank pulled away suddenly. He looked genuinely stunned—though Lily wondered if that was because it wasn’t true or because he couldn’t believe she would repeat such a rumor to him.

  “Though in some tellings, the father is either you or your cousin,” she added, lying with a straight face. “Have you heard any such talk?”

  She watched him closely as she spoke, but he stood before she could get a good look at his face.

  “My God, people will say anything,” he snapped, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I cannot wait to get my father in the ground so all this can be done.”

  It was a coarse sentiment, but Lily couldn’t find it in her to blame him for it too much, under the circumstances. Grief and loss were hard enough without fear and suspicion being thrown into the mix. She was no closer to discovering which Wyatt was the father of Edie’s child—if indeed any of them were. But there was no way to press Frank on the subject without rousing his suspicion.

  “I should be leaving.” Frank stood abruptly, giving her a small, lopsided smile that still looked not quite sober. “I probably should not have come.”

  “Probably?” Lily couldn’t help asking, her brows rising.

  That made him smile in earnest, in spite of the worry that still creased his forehead. “You always put me in my place. But will you do me a favor?”

  She stood as well. “If I can.”

  “Will you tell me if you do hear anything? Any new rumors, any gossip among the servants? Any …” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You’ve no idea the strain in that house right now. All of us staring at each other and jumping, trying our best not to say the wrong thing …”

  “You mean you and Lady Wyatt?”<
br />
  He grimaced. “And the servants. Even Percy. But yes, mostly her.”

  That much comfort she could offer him without betraying her clandestine search. “Well, however things are between the two of you, she doesn’t suspect you. In fact, she said quite firmly that she believes you could never raise a hand against your father.”

  Frank looked surprised. “You talked about me with her?”

  “And she said something almost flattering,” Lily said. They hadn’t discussed Ellen, of course, because Lily wasn’t supposed to know about the death of the maid. She bit her lip, then made the effort to smile. “So perhaps things are not quite as hopeless as they seem.”

  “Well, between us they are,” he said, shaking his head and looking grumpy at being forced to think of Lady Wyatt. Or maybe his head was simply beginning to ache. He seemed far more sober than when he had first arrived. “But at least she does not believe me a murderer.”

  “Did you honestly think she would?”

  “Not truly. But the way things are between us …”

  “Which doesn’t seem much like you, Frank,” Lily said, unable to keep the puzzlement from her voice.

  He gave her a smile that was almost smug. “Why, because everyone always likes me?”

  “They do,” Lily agreed, not rising to his bait. He had always liked to tease, but this time she wasn’t thinking of her father. “But more to the point, if they do not, you go out of your way to make them like you. The vicar’s wife was ready to whip you herself when she caught you stealing apples from the vicarage’s trees, that time you were home from school. And you set yourself to winning her over so thoroughly that a month later she was bringing apple pie to you and your father.”

  “It was very good pie,” Frank said, looking pleased with himself. “What is your point?”

  “My point”—Lily reached out to poke him in the chest—“is that I have never seen you reduced to sniping at someone the way you do at Lady Wyatt. I don’t like you either, yet you still go out of your way to be charming to me.”