by Cindy Anstey
“And,” Mr. Strickland pronounced through clenched teeth, “attracting plenty of attention while doing so. Not only can your faces be seen from out of doors, but you left a calling card just there.”
Mr. Strickland pointed through the window to Walter’s curricle. Traffic was slowly wending its way around the ill-positioned, well-known vehicle. The boy securing the reins ignored the angry calls, almost asleep on his feet.
“Please, Mr. Ellerby, Mr. Thompson, go home. Allow me to do me job.” Mr. Strickland tipped up the back of Henry’s chair, propelling him to his feet.
The deputy reached over to do the same with Walter but Walter splayed his legs and prevented the undignified act. He rose with exaggerated ceremony as he pulled down his waistcoat. He brought his chin up and tried to look down on the taller man. Then turning without a word, he bowed deeply to the patrons of the shop. With Henry at his heels, Walter pranced down the steps and acknowledged each and every soul watching on the street. With a flourish, they pulled themselves onto the seat of the curricle.
Walter paid the boy an excessive amount and turned his carriage not once but twice, waving and causing even more congestion in the backlog of traffic.
Faces were angry, disgusted, and indignant, but the look of curiosity was gone.
* * *
“GOOD MORNING.” Rebecca entered the morning room as the last to rise. She went straight to the sideboard and filled a plate from the still piping-hot platter, then carried her overflowing breakfast to the table.
The room was cozy, and the guests formed a tight, comfortable group. Rebecca avoided the empty seat by her father, choosing a chair opposite, between Caroline and James. She smiled sadly to the company and finally glanced down at her meal. Her fork hovered in the air and then slowly returned to the table.
Her plate was loaded with kippers and kippers alone.
“You have a great appreciation for fish this morning, my dear,” Lord Hanton commented, casually waving his fork at her dish.
“Not really.” Rebecca passed the plate full of kippers up to the ever-vigilant Reeves, who replaced it with her usual eggs and ham. “I can’t stop thinking … trying to remember. Elizabeth needs me to remember.”
James offered her a lopsided smile and placed his hand gently on top of hers. Then he jerked his hand away, blushing, as if just realizing what he had done. Rebecca reddened as well and looked to see her papa’s reaction.
“Eat for now,” the old gentleman said as if unaware. “Davis will be here soon. We will go over it then. I’m sure…” His voice petered out and he stared at his plate.
Rebecca stilled, swallowed, and quietly lay her fork down. She had no appetite—doubts about Elizabeth’s well-being had killed it.
After the strained meal, Dr. Brant suggested that they abandon the morning room to find more comfort in the freshly cleaned drawing room. It no longer resembled the broken mess of the previous evening. Waiting upon the peelers seemed long, but it was likely only a quarter hour before Reeves announced Inspector Davis and Sergeant Waters. They entered a serious and silent room.
Rebecca sat with James on one of the settees facing Caroline and Dr. Brant, who perched on the other. Lord Hanton had moved the cushioned occasional chair from the corner by the windows next to Rebecca.
“We shall start on Brook Street, on the fifteenth of April,” Inspector Davis said after the appropriate bows and curtsies. He stood beside the fireplace and raised his eyebrows in the general direction of the Hantons.
Lord Hanton shifted, meeting Rebecca’s gaze. “I was out on business for the day with Matthew, and Jeffrey was up to some mischief or another.” He shifted his eyes to James’ briefly and then back to Rebecca. “After luncheon, Mrs. Trimmer, your governess, and Elizabeth and you had planned an excursion to Regent Street. Elizabeth can shop every day of the week.” He paused, swallowed visibly, and then continued. “But you find it tedious. You always have it planned in such a way that you will not waste time. No browsing or dilly-dallying for you, Becca my dear.”
Rebecca shifted in her chair, made uncomfortable by these unfamiliar references. They seemed to be stories of another person. “Mrs. Trimmer was with us when we were kidnapped?”
“No, actually, she fell just outside the front door of our townhouse. A child’s toy had been abandoned on the narrow bottom step. We realized later that it had been left for just such a purpose. Mrs. Trimmer is always the first out the door and she has a weak ankle. Naturally, this gave it a nasty turn. Elizabeth was so disappointed, Mrs. Trimmer encouraged you to go on without her.”
Inspector Davis interrupted. “Misses Hanton kept an agenda. A type of journal. That was how we knew what shops they visited that day.”
“Really?” Caroline said. “We found a list of appointments in the brown cloak. James”—she turned to her brother—“where did it go?”
On the other side of the settee, Dr. Brant cleared his throat. “Were we not tossing it about just before dinner?” He cast his eyes around the immaculate room.
Caroline gulped and then jumped to her feet, rushing out of the room. Her rapid footfalls faded as she headed into the back regions of the townhouse.
Lord Hanton frowned. “What is its significance?” The question was directed to James.
Inspector Davis leaned forward and fixed James with a similar quizzical stare.
“It is a list of shops, down Regent Street. There was a time noted for Fitzroy’s but for none of the others.” James rubbed at his brow; he told the inspector about the trunk, the cloak, and his visit to Ellingham. A hush fell over the room as these details were absorbed and Rebecca listened with anticipation for Caroline’s return.
But Rebecca’s father was not attending; his gaze was locked on the door. Rebecca reached over and touched his hand. He looked up with a start and then quickly glanced around the room.
“That evening?” Rebecca prompted. “The day we disappeared?”
“Yes, right. That evening, I returned home to find Mrs. Trimmer moaning of neglect. It was not like you to leave her unattended and uninformed. So I sent Matthew and Jeremy—Jeremy Osborne, who is always in our midst—in a cabriolet to assist you with your packages. However, they returned empty-handed. The evening came and went without either of you returning or a message being delivered.” Lord Hanton cleared his throat.
“Finally, I sent Lord Whitten of the Home Office a frantic note. Within the hour he arrived with Inspector Davis. There was very little we could do at that time of night; we had to wait for the morning. Then, even before the shops had opened for the day, Inspector Davis was back with alarming news. He was able to ascertain that you…” Lord Hanton took a deep breath.
Rebecca placed her hand back on his arm. It wasn’t much solace, but it seemed to help, for his next words were not as forced.
“You had, indeed, been on Regent Street shopping. You had made several purchases. Merchants remembered Elizabeth’s enthusiasm and enjoyment. Just before two, a coach pulled up in front of Fitzroy’s. The manager waited expectantly, hoping for a new customer. When no one alit, he ignored it. He was also disappointed that you did not arrive for your appointment.
“However, while he did not see you approach the shop, others did. They said that as you advanced up the street, a man got down from the coach. You seemed to know one another. After reading a slip of paper that he had passed you, he relieved you of your parcels and handed you and your sister into the coach. Then he entered as well, and the coach pulled away. No one heard the conversation nor recognized the man in question. Inspector Davis got many descriptions, but no two alike.”
“The whole incident was so unremarkable in every particular that it was difficult at first for most witnesses to recall anything.” Inspector Davis shook his head. “They did agree, however, that the man had the presence of one who has no occupation at all.”
“A gentleman?” James sounded surprised.
“I am afraid so,” Lord Hanton sighed. “It became all the more o
bvious when the note arrived.”
“Note?” Rebecca took a deep breath, trying to control the tremors that were coursing through her limbs.
“Yes, it was slipped through the mail slot and discovered when Jeremy came to inquire about you and your sister. It did not demand money as we had expected. It ordered me to change my position on the letters of marque—privateers—and influence other members of the House to do likewise.”
“Did it mention Elizabeth and me?” Rebecca saw her father look away just before he nodded. “What exactly did it say?”
“It wasn’t what it said—although, that was bad enough…” Lord Hanton glanced up at Davis.
“It wasn’t what it said or even the note itself, Misses Hanton, that caused the most grief,” repeated the inspector. “In the envelope were your rings and those of your sister. Also, clumps of hair. All encrusted with blood. Even the note was stained with it.”
Rebecca reached blindly for James’ hand. “Hair, blood, and rings,” she repeated. She felt the warmth of caring fingertips on hers, and the spiraling tension abated.
Hair, blood, and rings. It was more than a coincidence. The substance of her dreams …
Rebecca turned to Dr. Brant. “Do you think we might return to Dr. Fotherby today?” Her shoulders shook with an unexpected shudder. “I believe we should explore my dreams from a different aspect.” Perhaps Dr. Fotherby would help her discover the meaning of her dreams that were looking more and more like memories. Memories that could help them find Elizabeth.
* * *
“AH ME,” sighed Mrs. Fogel, with a contented and wistful smile. She peeked out from the framework of the dining room window. Before her in glorious beauty was the rolling drive, the cheerful front gardens, and the tranquility that she no longer took for granted. But it was not this wholesome view that elicited such a response from the busy housekeeper. It was the sight of a young gentleman bumping along atop the ungainly stride of the old pony, headed back to Welford Mills. His face was full of excitement, his step lively, and his manner dramatic and comical.
Mrs. Fogel could see the wild spirit of the boy returning, albeit, his costume was quite the reverse of his normal immaculate apparel: a borrowed plain brown jacket from Robert and a rather disheveled, somewhat soiled hat from Paul. And that mount of his … Why on earth would he choose to saddle up the old pony? Well, Mrs. Fogel could only guess that he and Henry were up to a mischief.
She turned from the window and back to the problem at hand. What to do about the piano? It was now quite out of tune. The man that had shown up at the kitchen door this morning had been the most inept tuner that she had ever encountered. He had talked and asked more questions than all the tuners she had dealt with over the years, combined. Normally they were quiet, solitary men, listeners, uncomfortable in conversation. This rascal had talked incessantly, and although he plunked at the piano, it did not seem to be the strings that interested him.
No. Mrs. Fogel had sent him packing with nothing to show for his work. The piano sounded no different than it had when the tuner had insisted its scales were off. She believed him a charlatan, trying to make a living with no aptitude for his field.
She should have known better. If nothing, his clothing should have given her a clue. The scoundrel was a mishmash. His jacket was ill-fitted while his shoulders were proud—and his walk almost insolent. And he was wearing the most inappropriate footwear. Shiny boots! Such vanity! They would not traverse the dusty roads for long. No, she didn’t know what manner of game this wastrel was playing, but she wouldn’t be the least surprised to learn that he had never tuned a piano in his life.
And she had said as much to Walter.
* * *
CAROLINE PASSED THE scrap of stained wrinkled paper to Inspector Davis with both hands. “I don’t know what help it could possibly offer, but there it is.” Caroline was slightly out of breath, but it was as much from the fear of failure as the rush up the stairs. She returned to her seat and placed her trembling hands in her lap.
Inspector Davis pursed his lips and stared at the list for some moments. “Quality paper,” he finally said. His voice rang out loudly in the silent anticipation. “Weathered but not torn. Not scribbled in a hurry, for the lettering is well-formed, slightly flowery, but not overly so. Not easily discernible as to whether it is a man or woman’s hand.” He passed it to Lord Hanton for another opinion.
With a shrug and a shake of his head, Lord Hanton passed it back.
Caroline turned to Davis. “Have you no suspects—not at all?” She hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation.
“Who would benefit the most were you to support the letters of marque?” James asked.
Lord Hanton lifted his shoulders in a quick shrug. “It’s all about money, of course. Privateers are licensed pirates, for all intents and purposes. Most of the ship owners who fund the privateers are based in the West Indies, but certainly not all. Whoever decided to kidnap Rebecca and Elizabeth thought the vote in the House of Lords too tight, and that my influence would tip the balance in their favor.”
“Someone who was prepared to risk all,” Rebecca said quietly.
“Yes, indeed,” Davis said. “But there are many who keep their cards close to the chest. Never revealing their true purpose. It is difficult investigating a crime that no one knows of except, of course, the criminals.” Davis’ voice barely contained his frustration as he glanced in Lord Hanton’s direction. “It was put about that the Misses Hanton were visiting an aunt in Scotland. We have had to fabricate a stolen brooch as our pretext for inquiry.”
Lord Hanton sat back in his chair and rubbed his forehead with vigor. “We have narrowed the field somewhat.” He nodded to the inspector.
Davis took his pad from his pocket and flipped from one page to another, shaking his head all the while. “But nothing stands out. Perhaps if you were to enlighten us with your own misadventures, we might be able to piece some of it together.”
Rebecca tried to describe the events leading up to their dash to London, in a detached neutral tone. Were it not for Daisy’s demise, she might have succeeded. Still, Rebecca made it through the tale with only a few pauses and tears.
“Very wise,” Davis said, upon hearing of the decision to put forth the story of Elizabeth Dobbins lying on her deathbed. He had been nodding throughout most of the narrative. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the culprits did go into hiding initially. When no hue and cry went out with your recovery, they must have been puzzled. That would explain the time lapse before the first incident, which I know you believe was the attempted burglary, but it was likely your maid’s disappearance.”
Davis closed one eye and squinted the other, as if trying to read something from a great distance. Then he straightened up, easing his frown as he did so.
“The burglary took place the night of Daisy Bartley’s half day. That would mean that they had questioned her and learned that Misses Hanton did not remember who she was, and certainly not who they were. That likely made them bold. But what Daisy couldn’t tell them was that you were no longer in the servants’ wing. You had switched to the other side of the manor.”
Rebecca found it difficult to listen to Inspector Davis speculating about Daisy’s last hours with such little pathos. She glanced away, staring sightlessly at the floor until a subtle touch distracted her. James hooked their little fingers together. It was a simple and deeply understanding gesture that brought a sliver of comfort.
“Still determined,” Davis continued, “they tried to capture you after the funeral. But I must say that ploy of Paterson’s was getting desperate. Although I can tell you why—the agent that Paterson made reference to was our agent.” Davis nodded toward Lord Hanton. “Paterson must have heard of the inquiries and realized that your recognition was imminent, hence the unsuccessful deception. Then in desperation, the murder attempt.”
Rebecca faced her papa. “They thought me dead. But that assured them of their safety, and now they could us
e Elizabeth as their pawn. So they sent you another demand?” She saw the look passed between the inspector and her father; one nodded and the other said, “Indeed.”
“What did this note say?” Rebecca asked.
“It was short and to the point. Made no reference to either you or Elizabeth,” Lord Hanton replied. “It said I had to ensure a ‘no’ vote or else.”
“That was all?”
Again the look.
“What do we do now?” James asked.
“The story of the Misses Hanton being in Scotland still stands, as long as word about last night has not gotten around.” Inspector Davis’ glance toward Lord Hanton was almost a reprimand. “I will increase the guard around the townhouse, but I think it best if you, Misses Hanton, remain behind closed doors as much as possible. With the exception of your visit to the doctor, of course.”
Rebecca frowned at her father. “Lord Hanton … Papa,” she said, the name feeling far from natural. “I am sick with worry about Elizabeth. I might not remember her directly but … she is my sister. I … I … All alone. No one to look to. Does she feel abandoned? Is she alive?” Becca lifted her hand, covering her mouth. Overwhelming nausea clawed up her throat.
“No, Becca, stop,” her father said in a raw voice. “It will tie you in knots if you think about it too much. You will be unable to function, unable to do anything but fret.” His words echoed with experience. “Better to imagine that Elizabeth is just fine, and it will not be long before we are all together.” But tears swam in Lord Hanton’s eyes, showing that his true thoughts brought him pain and sorrow.
* * *
“KEEP TALKING, DEAR,” Dr. Fotherby encouraged. “Don’t lose yourself in what you are seeing.”
Rebecca frowned. Easier said than done, much easier. The images and visions swirling before her closed eyes were clearer now than they had ever been. And clarity was proving to be more frightening than the shadows; the violence was no longer omnipotent but directed at her, and the pain was more acute. But, despite the fact that she could now read the labels on the boxes and describe the slats on the door, the men were still faceless and their words were without meaning.
