by Cindy Anstey
Worse still, there was no sense of her sister.
“What does that mean?” Rebecca opened her eyes. She glanced at Caroline, who was standing by the door ready to intercept another dash of escape. Her friend raised her shoulders and pinched her lips.
“Nothing, my dear. Nothing at all.” Dr. Fotherby sat back. “This is not a memory, but an interpretation of a memory. I think the harm you received at the hands of your kidnappers was so foreign to you that your mind is trying to make sense of it. You can’t deal with parts of it, as yet. The fact that your recollection of this dream is becoming clearer is very hopeful. It tells us that you are able to handle more and more of what happened to you.”
Dr. Fotherby had been pleased to learn that his nameless forlorn patient had been identified. He professed a belief that a full recovery was likely. Although “when” was the question that he could not answer.
“Let us not belabor that brain of yours anymore today. Rest yourself.”
“Oh no, we cannot stop now. I must learn what I can of her.” Rebecca shook her head and squeezed her eyes tightly together.
“Too much too soon might hinder more than help.” Caroline touched her arm, rousing Rebecca from the chair.
With a nod of agreement, Dr. Fotherby smiled gently. “Yes, exactly. It would be best if you did not think on this until our next meeting. Then we can approach it with fresh eyes and ears and, perhaps, glean a little more.”
Rebecca scrubbed at her temple. “But we cannot delay. My sister—”
“Yes, I know, dear. Truly, I understand the necessity of immediate action, but the brain is a tricky organ and, through my studies, I have learned that it is an ornery one as well. Push too hard and we might find ourselves propelled backward instead of forward. Or even worse, obliterating the recollection altogether.” He raised his brows. “Come tomorrow. That shouldn’t be too soon. We will try again.”
Rebecca squared her shoulders, smiled wanly, and pulled down her veil. Caroline did the same and they left the doctor with deflated words of thanks. They joined Dr. Brant waiting in the outer office. With an acknowledging nod to the white-haired gentleman, Dr. Brant opened the office door and escorted the ladies to the waiting carriage.
* * *
JUST MOMENTS AFTER the departure of his last patient and her escorts, Dr. Fotherby heard his waiting room door open again. The office was now closed, and he was expecting no one. Looking around the room, he could discern no article left behind, nothing that needed retrieval.
“Dr. Fotherby?” a stranger’s voice greeted him. It was an educated voice—that of a gentleman—and the doctor rose to meet him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kickin’ up a Lark
The shifty, vile deceiver leaned nonchalantly over the children. He patted the fair-haired mop of one urchin, smiled, and handed the older one a coin. Walter could not hear the words but he knew that something, at last, was afoot.
Walter and Henry had watched Joe Smythe for the better part of a day and then for some hours this morning. Disguised and—of course—discreet, the boys had followed the villain through his trite conventional day. But once again, the results of their surveillance had proved to be less than noteworthy. Joe Smythe was extremely tedious in his habits, amiable in his greetings, and verbose in his conversations. He hid his treachery well.
Walter squinted at the urchins, now carrying the treasured coin into the bakery, and wondered at their involvement. He watched Smythe casually stroll down to a small clutch of villagers gathered before the inn and felt his expectations fade.
There was no need to poke Henry awake. Instead, he entertained the possibility of joining his friend for a few moments of shut-eye. Although Walter wondered at Henry’s ability to do so leaned up against the stucco of the apothecary wall.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, mister.”
Walter and a suddenly wide-awake Henry turned to face the two young urchins that were addressing them. One boy was fair-haired and the older boy held up a package wrapped in newspaper. “This ’ere’s fer you.”
Instinctively, Henry reached out. Walter grabbed his arm. “What is it?”
“Crumpets,” the boy said as if it were obvious. “The fella across the street asked us to gives ’em to ya.”
“Don’t forget what he says to say, Georgy.” The younger boy’s voice was quiet but firm.
“Ah yeah! ’E says he’ll be havin’ a bite in a tick and he thoughts you might be needin’ somethin’, too.”
Walter lifted the edges of his mouth in an imitation smile. He grabbed the bag from the boy’s hand and saw them scamper away with large grins on their faces. Turning to face Henry, Walter shook his head; his friend stared into the sky looking thoroughly disgruntled.
“He knows we are following.” Henry ran his manicured hand down the sleeve of his jacket. A cloud of dust puffed out from his squared shoulders and then slowly dissipated. “What gave us away? How?” he muttered as he scuffed his stylish kid leather boots in the dirt.
Walter tossed Henry the package of crumpets and turned back to their quarry. He heard the ripping of paper behind him and the sounds of chewing. Out on the street, Mr. Smythe was no longer gabbing to Mrs. Cranley. In fact, he was no longer in sight.
“Henry, Henry!” Walter tried to distract his comrade from the interests of his stomach. “He’s gone!”
Henry joined him at the corner; only their heads could be seen from Main Street.
They glanced in both directions and spotted a man standing by Dodd’s and Tobin’s. His body faced the store, as if he was interested in the bonnets in the window, but his head swiveled from side to side as if he too were seeking a face.
“Is that him?” Henry whispered so close to Walter’s ear that it made him start.
“No,” Walter hissed with disgust. “I believe that is Mr. Strickland. So much for—”
“What about him?” Henry interrupted, pointing.
Walter glanced in the direction of Henry’s finger. A man with a cap pulled over his eyes stood partially hidden in the alley just past the Horn and Thistle. He leaned on the building next to him, emoting disinterest.
“Well, it’s certainly not Smythe—” he started to say but, as the capped man glanced around, his gaze hesitated on the form of Mr. Strickland. Then the man turned his gaze directly to Walter and Henry.
As the man sensed their scrutiny, he raised his chin just enough for the sunlight to flood beneath his cap brim, illuminating his face. Black-and-gray peppered hair fringed a deeply tanned pockmarked face. It was a face that Walter could not forget—the coachman at Beth’s accident. His eyes were hard and cold and he immediately lowered his chin, turned and hurried down the alley.
Walter ran across the street and down the alley after the coachman. Mr. Smythe was all but forgotten. Henry dropped the crumpets in his haste to follow Walter and dodged the wagon that had just avoided his distracted friend.
Walter arrived at the other end of the alley with an extra layer of grime, as his attention was not on the filth at his feet but the figure before him. He was just in time to see the capped man entering a neighboring lane, one that led out of Welford and back to the London road.
Henry, just steps behind, saw a dark form emerge from the shadows next to Walter. Henry called out a warning but not in enough time to prevent Walter from slamming into the shadowy figure. He tripped over a protruding cane and tumbled into a great heap. The sounds of the running coachman faded away.
* * *
JAMES ROCKED WITH the motion of the carriage, but it did nothing to lull his thoughts. The case, as the inspector called it, was out of his hands now. His role was that of a spectator. It was a position that James loathed and as such rebelled, albeit in a very minor capacity.
James had told Davis of his suspicions about Hugh Derrydale’s cousin, but from the outset Davis was not interested. James felt that he was onto something, but as his experience in these matters was limited, he had nothing other than his gut feeling
to go by. James had not heard from Hugh since their encounter some days ago. It occurred to James that while Hugh could ask his mates about the ships and then report back to him, it would be much more efficient to pay a visit to the custom and excise house. They certainly would have the ship listings and their cargoes. If the passenger manifesto was not with them, they could tell him where it could be obtained. James was soon undertaking an excursion to St. Katherine’s Docks.
This time the delay through the gates was slight. It became evident why that was so when, after passing under the warehouses, James noted that two of the larger ships docked there were fully loaded, awaiting the turn of the tide.
Sam made inquiries and stopped the carriage in line behind another. As James alit, he spied the figure of a young lady standing beside the carriage ahead. She shifted and craned her neck in every direction, watching the activities around her with fascination. She obviously enjoyed the bustle of the warehouses and docks, enthralled by its diversity and foreign nature.
When she looked in James’ direction, he was shocked to recognize Miss Sophia Thompson standing on St. Katherine’s Docks without a chaperone in sight. He stepped forward to offer his assistance when he heard a rustling within the carriage and a face emerged at the window.
“Lord Ellerby!” Mrs. Thompson squealed. Even Sophia flinched at her shrill tone. The large, frilled matron heaved herself off the seat and placed a pink-slippered foot on the step. She held her arm out as she allowed James to hand her down, and then simpered through the niceties of weather and health.
But Mrs. Thompson was all atwitter with anticipation and could contain herself only so long. “I hear your sister and her friend have come to Town.” She glossed over James’ inquiry of their locale with a quick reference to her brother’s business, and launched herself straight into prying. “I had hoped to call on Miss Ellerby within a day or two.”
Mrs. Thompson waited, looking hopeful. It was as if she expected an invitation.
“Do not trouble yourself, Mrs. Thompson. Miss Ellerby is staying with friends. She is not with me in Berkeley Square.”
Mrs. Thompson’s eyes grew wider. “Oh my, I hope there has not been a parting of the ways. Your family has always seemed to be so attached.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Thompson, merely a gathering of school chums. They are all reminiscences and recollections, and as far as I understand having a grand time of it.” James glanced toward Miss Thompson, hoping for a change of subject.
Sophia complied, but the topic was not far enough from its source. “Might they be going to the Blakeney Assembly tomorrow? Mama has talked of nothing else for days.”
The girl’s sigh was rather transparent. James knew that she had yet to be presented and had to live vicariously on the skirts of others until she could acquire her own standing.
“It must be the social event of the year,” Mrs. Thompson added with sincerity.
“I believe there has been discussion about attending a concert at Vauxhall Gardens. Another event not to be missed. Quite a shame there is a conflict.”
“Yes indeed, quite a cruelty to those who would have to be seen.” A man, who looked to be Mrs. Thompson’s brother, Mr. Gilbert Renfrew, had joined their group and their conversation.
Mrs. Thompson provided the introductions and James found himself pleasantly surprised. Mr. Renfrew, who was visiting from the West Indies, was as sturdily built as his sister, but his manner of dress hid rather than accentuated his bulk. His expression and easy conversation gave him the air of a man sure of his place in the world, and his ready smile held no guile.
It was no wonder that Walter had found the man affable, and James felt comfortable with him immediately. It was hard to imagine that his closest kin was none other than the extravagant Mrs. Thompson.
“It is a great pleasure to have finally met you. My sister has often mentioned your name with delight, and I did so hope to make your acquaintance.” Mr. Renfrew glanced over to his niece, who was not attending the conversation but instead watching the rough-and-ready men heaving their burdens from a nearby barge. “But perhaps now is not an ideal time.”
James recognized the inappropriateness of the situation. He was not surprised when the gentleman bowed, and hustled the gawking Sophia and now-petulant Mrs. Thompson into their carriage. The whining plea to an inaudible remark could be heard as the carriage pulled away.
“But I thought it harmless, Gilbert. Oh my, don’t be piqued with me.”
The custom and excise house was a busy place, full of hustle and bustle, and clerks with so much more to do, now that a young gentleman had crossed their threshold. James was directed to an intense man whose desk was overcrowded with ledgers and papers. He looked as if he were in desperate need of his day off, and James was unsure if his request would add to the man’s burden or if the change would bring relief. It was soon apparent that his presence represented the former rather than the latter.
“This is not my day for frivolous requests!”
James smiled, believing the man to be in jest, but he was not.
“Come back tomorrow. I have much to occupy me today.”
“That would not be convenient.” James kept his voice smooth and without rancor. “Perhaps if you were to allow me to look over your ledger, you could go about your routine with little disturbance?”
“Right, then!” The customs officer pushed not one, but a pile of ledgers toward him. “They are based on cargo. Do you know what it was that the ship carried? No, I thought not. Just an approximate date.”
James flipped open the topmost book and within a few pages saw that it was going to be a formidable task, especially to someone unfamiliar with the abbreviations and codes. He snapped it closed and passed the smirking man his card.
“Send the names of the ships and their passengers to this address by day’s end.” James gave the official no time for further comment but immediately turned, replaced his top hat, and marched back out to his carriage.
* * *
WALTER LAY SPRAWLED and perplexed in the dirt. One leg was bent uncomfortably beneath him, and his face was just inches from the ground. How on earth had he ended up in such a position? He pushed himself up onto his knees and took an assessment.
Both hands were encased in a combination of mud and manure. It was disgusting! He shook his hands to free them of the heaviest globs and then wiped them down the sides of his legs, leaving brown streaks across the dark material.
Robert’s old coat was now completely soiled and split at the seams. Paul’s hat had landed beneath Walter, crushing it beyond the possibility of reshaping. Although Walter was unhurt, he was slightly dazed. It took him a few moments to recall that he had been in hot pursuit of the mysterious coachman when he had tripped. Tripped over … over … was it a cane?
Walter’s awareness returned to his surroundings and he was suddenly conscious of a set of flailing arms. It was Henry trying to protect his fallen comrade. With the best of intentions, Henry threw his arms about, as if to ward off invisible blows, all the while backing closer to his stricken friend and doing more harm than good.
It was no surprise that the menacing figure stepping out of the shadows was none other than Joe Smythe. “Are you all right? I am most dreadfully sorry. I did not see you there. I had expected you behind me, not before me.” His words dripped with sarcasm and hypocrisy.
Walter felt a swell of outrage. He stood and grabbed Henry’s arms, pinning them to his sides. He opened his mouth to deliver a proper set-down, then caught a glimpse of his dirt-embedded hands. His planned tirade was cut short by the realization that his manner of dress did not secure him the position he needed to vent his anger.
It would undoubtedly bring about questions for which he had no time. No, perhaps it was better if the man thought their interest a mere prank. That would allow them to continue their pursuit posthaste.
“Ne’er bet’er, sir.” Walter used a broad accent that would have sent shudders down Caroline’s spine ha
d she heard him. “G’day.” He turned in unison with Henry, but while facing the right direction, their feet could not get the grip they needed. Both were being held fast by the scruff of their collars.
“Not so hasty, my friends.” Mr. Smythe’s smile was less than genuine. “The boot is on the other leg. We need to talk.”
Walter twisted and pulled, freeing himself from Mr. Smythe’s grasp. “Sir. We ’as ta be goin’.”
Henry tried to do as Walter had, but he found himself raised up just enough to feel great discomfort with the tight collar of his shirt, and breathing rather than freedom became his major consideration.
“Then you are in a bit of a predicament, are you not? Unless you can be in two places at the same time, for I mean not to let your friend go until you have answered some questions.”
Walter met Henry’s wild eye. “Nuffin’ to talk h’about there, sir. We was just kickin’ up a lark.” He made a sudden lunge for the front of Henry’s coat and jerked with all his might. For a moment it seemed the effort had been futile, but then Henry almost tumbled on top of him. They caught themselves just in time and became fleet of foot. They rounded the next corner and ran into the lane. There were no sounds of a chase.
Walter tried to talk as he ran. “Did you see … which way he went? The coachman?”
Henry shook his head and pointed at the same time.
Walter didn’t understand the conflicting message but he continued to race up the street. The lane ended at the London road; a neighboring street led back into town. With hands on knees, they gasped for breath and agonized over which way to turn. This was the only breakthrough they had had thus far, and now it looked to be another dead end, thanks to Mr. Smythe.
