by Cindy Anstey
Henry listened for running feet down the next lane while Walter scanned the road, looking for any kind of movement. After Walter’s hopes had been raised and then dashed by a squirrel and a bluebird, he caught sight of a bobbing head. It was high up on the road, almost hidden by the thicket, but even from below, the hat atop the two-toned hair was visible.
“There!” he shouted. Before the word was out, he was back on the chase. The man continued apace and, if they were to have any chance of catching him, they had to narrow the gap. The figure up ahead disappeared behind the trees and Walter was afraid that, eventually, it would fail to reappear.
Walter knew the London road to have three turnoffs before it made its long and winding passage to Kirkstead-on-Hill. Just before the Torrin Bridge was Old Risely Road, just after it Mill Road, and then their own drive at Hardwick Manor. While two roads led to the great houses, Mill Road led to fields, cottages, and other paths.
When Walter and Henry arrived at the spot they had last seen the coachman with no one in sight, Walter did not despair. He ran past Henry and quickly crossed the bridge. “Come on,” he called back as Henry hesitated, glancing around.
“Thought I saw someone behind us!” Henry called after his friend.
“Nonsense!” Walter shook his head. Really, there were times he quite despaired of Henry. “That makes no sense. We’re the ones doing the following.” He put on a burst of speed despite his aching sides, and turned down Mill Road.
* * *
STANDING BEFORE THE large townhouse at No. 17 Brook Street, James was only vaguely aware of its grandeur and classic Greek lines. His mind was focused on the persons behind the facade—one in particular. This was the home of one Miss Rebecca Hanton. He could almost hear her laughter and see her younger self, peeking out from behind the draperies. It was the thought of the other face that should be standing beside her that urged him up the steps to request an interview with Lord Hanton.
James was led to the first floor study. The room was lined with countless tomes and was occupied not by one person but by three. Sergeant Waters stood sentry by the door, nodding to James as he entered. The other two stared at him from the other side of a massive desk.
Lord Hanton had been pacing, evidenced by his stance, which had come to a standstill with James’ announcement. Inspector Davis, notebook in hand, had been making some sort of report. Their faces displayed expectation mingled with surprise.
Lord Hanton finally spoke. “Glad you are here, Ellerby. We are expecting Jeremy at any moment. There have been a few developments since we last met.” He waved toward one of the mahogany leather chairs. “Sit, sit.”
The tense atmosphere in the room overshadowed James’ sense of urgency in regard to Hugh’s cousin, Greg Brill. Instead of soliciting support for further inquiry into the man’s whereabouts, James found himself caught up in the vortex of their anxiety. His first thought was of Rebecca. “Is all well in Marylebone?” he asked, sitting as directed.
“Yes, yes, indeed. Sergeant Waters has just returned from Dr. Brant’s,” Lord Hanton replied. “All is well but, under my orders, he did not inform them of the latest tragedy.”
James blinked and then swallowed slowly, trying to control his surprise and concern. “Elizabeth?” he asked. But even as he uttered the name, James observed Lord Hanton, noting that the man’s appearance was not that of deep mourning.
“No, no,” Lord Hanton confirmed. He took a deep breath again before speaking. “Dr. Fotherby has been murdered. I have never met the man, but by all accounts he was an admirable and caring human being. It is a great shame.”
“Oh no. How, when, why—” James was staggered, overwhelmed by questions.
Inspector Davis flipped back a few pages of his notepad and addressed the room in general in a gravelly, emotionless tone. “Dr. Stewart Fotherby’s body was found yesterday evening by his maid-of-all-work just prior to eight. He had been left behind his desk in his inner office.”
The inspector paused slightly. “As the doctor worked with many unstable and at times unsavory patients, this incident could have been unrelated to our investigation. However I had, of course, to verify that. What I found was just the opposite.
“Dr. Fotherby had a very regimented style of filing. Waters searched the office thoroughly and could not find Misses Hanton’s file, not listed under her own name or that of Miss Ellerby, Miss Dobbins, or simply Miss Beth. According to the appointment book, Miss Ellerby and Misses Hanton were the last to see Dr. Fotherby the night he was killed.”
James remembered the faith Rebecca had placed in Dr. Fotherby’s abilities and knew that she would be devastated to learn of his death. As much as he regretted the need to speak to her about the tragedy, James had no intention of withholding the information from Rebecca. Though he understood why her father had done so.
Davis flipped his book shut with a snap. “I believe he was killed because of his help to Misses Hanton. We did not foresee this development. Few knew of Misses Hanton’s memory loss, and even fewer knew of Dr. Fotherby’s involvement.”
The room was silent as James considered the implication. Could their actions somehow have brought about the doctor’s death? It was a horrifying possibility.
“Besides the police, only your family and hers knew of the appointments.” The inspector’s stiff stance and sharp tone offered a sharp rebuke—almost an accusation.
James shook his head, frowned, and then shook his head again. “No, no one would say anything. No one.”
Another pause allowed the inspector time to reconsider and adjust his tone. “You would be surprised how easily people pick information up: the housekeeper, boot boy, or cabriolet driver. While in most cases it would fall on disinterested ears and be forgotten, if it were whispered in the right direction … a great deal of information could be gleaned from a small observation.”
James didn’t believe this kind of thinking to be of any help at all. By following this hypothesis, all of London was suspect.
“Let us turn to the shopping list that was discovered in the cloak,” Lord Hanton suggested. He pulled the piece of paper from atop the desk and waved it in the air.
Puzzled by the abrupt change of subject, James curled the corner of his mouth up in concentration and took a quick breath. He masked his huff by clearing his throat and shifting in his chair.
“Bear with me for a moment…” Lord Hanton hesitated, leaning toward the door. “We have learned that the writing on this paper is none other than that of our Jeremy Osborne. Mrs. Trimmer recognized the hand, and my housekeeper confirmed it. Jeremy, who visits this home daily at exactly the same hour. Jeremy, who knows where Rebecca keeps her journal. Jeremy, who rushed to inform us that he had spotted Rebecca just two days ago. And where had Jeremy seen her?”
“Outside Dr. Fotherby’s office.”
Lord Hanton and Inspector Davis nodded.
“You believe your own nephew would be associated with a plot to defeat a parliamentary vote and threaten the lives of your daughters?” James asked, his tone incredulous.
Lord Hanton nodded, his shoulders rigid and square. “Right from the beginning, it has been obvious that whoever is responsible knows the family. Jeremy arrives every day at this hour, whether it is to ingratiate himself with my daughters or simply provide himself with a meal, I have never determined. But today … he will answer a few questions.”
Fury suffused Lord Hanton’s face, and James wondered how Davis would control the viscount long enough to prize out those answers. However, James soon realized that Lord Hanton could keep himself in check, if circumstances demanded it. When the door finally opened to admit Osborne, Hanton greeted his nephew without any visible animosity.
“Good afternoon, Jeremy. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to put in an appearance today.”
The skittish young man twitched his thin mustache as he glanced up at the clock on the mantel. It showed only a few minutes past four. He apologized needlessly and at length befo
re noticing James and the inspector. He nodded a greeting, completely unaware of the tension in the room.
“Ah, so glad to see you again, Davis. I have been giving this situation a great deal of thought since…” Osborne’s face contracted.
“What situation is that, Mr. Osborne?” Davis reopened his notepad.
“Politics and kidnapping. You know, privateers and all that. I wondered if there were any discussions about the letters of marque among our acquaintances.”
Lord Hanton cringed when Osborne included himself as a member of the household.
“Then I recalled a discussion about that very subject just yesterday.” He looked so triumphant that it was impossible to think of him as a great conspirator, unless he was a great actor as well.
“Really?” asked the inspector, displaying no true interest.
Oblivious, Osborne continued. “I happened upon Mr. Grey yesterday.” He turned to his uncle. “Do you remember the two students from Lincoln’s Inn, suitors of Becca’s, studying law and full of opinions?”
Lord Hanton rubbed his forehead as if trying to think. James thought it likely that the man was trying to control his urge to strangle the boy. He pointed to the chair beside James. It put more distance between them. “Mr. Grey and Mr. Saunders.”
“Yes, well, I had forgotten about them until yesterday. You know how bad I am with names.” Osborne looked around the room. “Yes, indeedy, we talked politics. Are there any biscuits or sandwiches about?” He sighed dramatically when no one answered. “Do we know anything about Elizabeth yet?” he asked as an afterthought.
Davis shook his head. “Mr. Osborne, do you remember showing us the location of Misses Hanton’s journal?”
“Yes, indeedy.”
“At the time, I did not ask how you knew where it was.”
Osborne waited and then realized it was a question. “Oh, Becca was going to pick me up a new set of gloves.” He held his hands aloft, palms up; loose threads ran riot across his wrists. “She saw that my best pair were frayed and wanted to replace them. She was always so considerate. It was when she noted it in her journal that I saw where she put it.”
“Did you yourself ever use the journal?”
“No indeedy, not. Why would I do that?”
Davis indicated to James that he should pass the list over to Osborne and they all watched as he looked it over. As he did so, a flush set his pale complexion ablaze.
“Oh, you don’t mean write in it but”—Osborne kept his head down, not meeting anyone’s eye—“read it.” His voice was almost a whisper. “I didn’t think it would be a problem.” He handed the paper back to James quickly.
“Did you write that list?”
Osborne found the window of great interest. “Yes.” His answer was rather clipped. “Copied it … from the journal.”
Davis showed surprise at the young man’s candor. “Why?”
Osborne offered them a deep sigh. “It all sounded so romantic.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lord Hanton’s voice was low and dangerous.
“He said he wanted to spend the afternoon with Becca, but he wanted it to seem like an accident. Have time with her away from all the others.” He looked up, his eyes wide and dreamy. “There were always so many people around. I understood his need to impress her.”
“Why did you not mention it earlier?” Davis asked.
“To what end?”
“How do you think the villains knew where the two Misses Hanton were going on the day she was kidnapped?” Davis demanded.
“You think this list was party to the abduction?” The look of horror that slid across Osborne’s face showed that he, indeed, had not made the connection. “No, it could not be. Why—I saw him just yesterday.”
Lord Hanton started. “Who, man, who?”
James stopped breathing as he awaited the answer, nerves taut and shaking from the effort to remain seated.
“Why, Mr. Grey, of course. I just told you. We happened upon each other just outside my rooms. Why, we even went to the pub together.”
Davis stepped closer, almost menacing. “Did you happen to mention the Hantons?”
“Yes, indeedy. Why would we not?” Osborne said sounding indignant. “That was how we are acquainted. But I am not a complete fool; I did not mention the kidnapping. He thought Rebecca to be in Scotland and merely remarked that he was surprised to see her on Newman Street the other day. I said she was back visiting friends. I did not tell him where she was.”
“Did Dr. Fotherby’s name come up?”
“Yes, although I cannot remember in what capacity.” Osborne looked up at his uncle hovering near his chair. “I was very general in all manner of topics.” His voice had taken on a righteous quality.
“Jeremy, think very carefully. Did you mention the doctor’s name first or did he?”
Osborne was silent for some time and then, again, his complexion began to darken. Without a word spoken, it was entirely clear that Jeremy Osborne had been manipulated and duped not once but twice. The young man had contributed, albeit unwittingly, to the kidnapping of his cousins and the murder of a worthy man.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Nightmare Revelations
With a shove, she stumbled into a room. Rough pale wood, signs and labels, boxes and crates surrounded her. She called a name: Elizabeth. She called and cringed with the blows that followed. Slippery flakes of sawdust danced under her feet. She hit the floor with a force that winded her; she lay gasping for breath.
A scream filled the room, but not from her lips.
She fought for air, still crumpled in a heap, sawdust in her mouth, her arms tied behind her back. Hands pulled her to her feet, yanking at her rings, cutting into her swollen fingers.
She called again and felt a sharp pain burst in her cheek. Another scream. Through a veil of hair, she saw a girl. Her expression was fury. And the fury spewed threats and curses.
A motion caught her eye. She watched the hummingbird dagger swing from hand to hand, side to side. She stared as it neared the source of fury.
She saw the danger. She shouted a warning, but it was unstoppable. It lashed out. The girl crumpled; her hair floated out around her like feathers caught in a breeze.
All sound ceased as a red dribble grew into a puddle. It streamed across the floor, wending toward her, reaching for her.
A great weight pulled at her head, bending it down, and down again. A rough cloth came over her eyes.
She whispered the name and the bird began to laugh.
* * *
JAMES IGNORED EVERYONE in the room but Rebecca; he reached across the settee and held her, tucking her head under his chin. He rocked back and forth. He felt her shudder as her last words echoed in the silence of the drawing room. He glanced over her head to Caroline sitting beside Brant on the other settee. His sister’s expression was not one of reproach or disapproval for his closeness to Rebecca, but rather horror at her description. The dream offered little hope of Elizabeth’s survival.
Caroline eventually broke through the heavy silence. “The nightmare…” She cleared her throat. “The nightmare may not be what it seems.”
It was just after luncheon, a meal in which James had been invited to join when he had come to deliver the sad news of Dr. Fotherby’s demise, and the good news of the impending doom of their adversaries. He anticipated the announcement of the arrest and questioning of Mr. Grey very soon.
By the time James had left Grosvenor Square the previous day, it had become a hive of activity. Officers had been dispatched to the court of Lincoln’s Inn and the rooms that many of the university students occupied. Still others were sent to question them and barristers at various haunts, such as pubs and gathering clubs. Their purpose was not only to apprehend Mr. Grey but also to inquire about his habits, company, and character.
The inspector, and thus Lords Hanton and Ellerby, were informed that Mr. Grey was a flamboyant gentleman with a leaning toward materialism. He was from a les
s than affluent but well-born family in Kent. However, the most intriguing information was that while Mr. Grey tried to hide his immoral behavior, he did nothing to mask the fact that he was a zealot, a man consumed with fervor, and deeply into the craft of debate. His choices of topics for argument were wide and varied, but among them, the letters of marque ranked high.
James had spent a fitful night awaiting word of Mr. Grey’s arrest. Midmorning the next day, Davis’ note finally reached Berkeley Square. James had immediately set out for Harley Street, dispatch in hand, to share the news.
Caroline and Brant were overjoyed to hear that Mr. Grey had been located and his arrest was imminent. But Rebecca was restrained, and when she recounted her nightmare, the room grew quiet—very quiet.
“Not a dream … not even a nightmare,” Rebecca said, sitting up straight and meeting James’ worried gaze. “It was a memory…” Words stuck in her throat and choked her, but her thoughts carried her further, beyond the memory, to the truth behind it.
Elizabeth was dead: The fury and the blood had been hers. Rebecca’s sister had been murdered in front of her. Her only consolation was the speed with which Elizabeth had met her end.
It was not much of a consolation.
* * *
“IF YOU WOULD just listen to me,” Walter tried again.
The parish deputy had found the boys, thus far, of little help and a great hindrance as he tried to carry out his new duties. They were constantly in the way in thought and in person. Had their families been from a lower class, he would have boxed their ears and given them a good dressing down. As it was, Mr. Strickland had only one recourse: He had to listen.
The deputy ushered the boys to the back office of the apothecary. It was not large and was serving a dual purpose for both shop and parish business. There were numerous piles of scribbled letters, notes, lists, and ledgers amassed and overflowing across a small rudimentary desk in the center.
Mr. Strickland pushed his spectacles up at the bridge of his nose and twitched his mustachio as if it itched. “Well?” he prodded.
