The Hummingbird Dagger

by Cindy Anstey

  Both boys spoke at the same time, but eventually Henry fell behind and Walter became the sole proprietor of the saga. “He was gone and any clue of him or his purpose has gone with him,” Walter concluded.

  Mr. Strickland looked at the solemn young men. He was glad to see that they had returned to their normal attire. They, in fact, stood out far less in their bright waistcoats than they did in their brown jackets. “You sure it be the coachman?”

  “Without a doubt. Not only did we see him clearly, but he recognized us.”

  “What of Smythe? Was he not the man you thought part of the troubles?”

  “They must be working together,” Henry said, after a quick glance to his friend. “Had he not tripped Walter, we would not be here arguing the point.”

  “Strange, what with Miss Beth’s removal, that they didn’t vacate themselves. Yes, strange indeed.” He was silent for some moments.

  The clock ticked on his chimneypiece and muted voices drifted beneath the door. “Could Mr. Smythe and Mr. Paterson be one and the same?” Mr. Strickland asked.

  “No,” Walter said, shaking his head. Henry mimicked the motion.

  Mr. Strickland curled his upper lip beneath his large mustache and nodded several times in succession. “All right. Then why do you think he headed for Mill Road?”

  “Where else would he have gone? To return to town meant passing us.”

  Mr. Strickland smiled at the anxious faces. “Well, he could have jumped into the woods and hidden in the shadows. He could have run underneath the bridge and waited until you passed. He could have hidden behind the manor gate and reentered town after you had gone down to the mill, or he could have gone up Old Risely Road.”

  Henry shook his head. “That only leads to our hall.”

  “No. Lord Ellerby and I—” Mr. Strickland stopped, his eyebrows joined above his spectacles. “Lord Ellerby and I—” he repeated and then stopped again. He straightened. “You know there may be something. Lord Ellerby and I found a path. It led to the new ruins.” His frown deepened and he turned to Walter. “Could we use Lord Ellerby’s retriever? He was quite helpful last time. If we hurry, the track might not be gone.”

  “Of course, I will get Jack and meet you at Old Risely Road,” Walter said.

  Henry and Walter almost ran from the office, knocking into Mrs. Cranley as they flung the door wide. Walter apologized as he helped the woman remain steady on her feet and then hastily made an exit.

  Henry was already on the seat of the curricle, reins in hand. Walter had just enough time to leap up beside his friend before the horses were urged forward, cantering at first and then prodded into a run.

  Walter whooped in delight. Delight with the speed, delight with the prospect of furthering the investigation, and delight with the day in general. The quest for clues and the apprehension of the criminals was once again at hand. Walter felt his blood quicken.

  He ignored the critical stares of the townsfolk. High spirits were seldom appreciated.

  Walter thought he saw the figure of Joe Smythe watching from a clutch of tradesmen chatting by the side of the road, but Walter cared not. He was off to catch a villain. Joe Smythe was of little consequence when placed next to the dastardly coachman with salt-and-pepper hair.

  * * *

  BRANT WAS APPALLED. “The cold and calculating cheek. It’s monstrous!” He shook his head in disbelief. “To sit under the Hanton roof, to drink from their cups and eat their cakes, all the while watching and hatching a nefarious plan!”

  James nodded in agreement. “Not only that, but Grey was considered one of Rebecca’s suitors. He fooled her into thinking he had formed an attachment.”

  James and Brant had sequestered themselves in the Harley Street study.

  “It does explain why she got into the carriage without hesitation,” Brant remarked. “She would trust him. He had but to say there was a problem with the family and she, along with Elizabeth, would have been grateful for his help. Can you imagine, grateful—that murdering wretch! Hellfire and damnation, they had better catch him soon!”

  There was a slight tap at the door, and before either had a chance to answer, it opened.

  Caroline’s head peeked round the edge. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” Brant answered, too quickly.

  “That is good to hear,” she said. “This was just delivered for you, by way of Berkeley Square.”

  James took the offered papers with a quizzical look. He tore the seal and found not one but two sheets inside from the Customs and Excise Office. Both were covered in lists—vessels of every shape and size in or around the port of London in April. The clerk had had his revenge, supplying too much information. The lists would require a thorough study to glean anything. James snorted, folded the papers, and stuffed them into his pocket.

  “I thought to learn,” James explained, “of Greg Brill’s accomplice through dock records, but now that we have Grey’s name, we have no need.”

  “What leads us to believe that Mr. Grey is indeed the man behind the kidnapping?” Caroline asked him with an eyebrow arched.

  Before James could reply, Lord Hanton pushed the study door open fully and entered with Rebecca on his arm. “I have news,” he told the group. “Grey has been apprehended. And, even as we speak, is on his way to Scotland Yard where Inspector Davis will be questioning him. Elizabeth will be returned to us soon.” Lord Hanton patted Rebecca’s arm.

  James watched Rebecca turn her lips up in a halfhearted attempt to look hopeful. She did not expect a happy reunion. Had he been closer, James would have taken her into his arms to offer creature comfort … not in front of her father—a pat on the arm would have had to do—but he was too far away and a pat would be unimpressive. Rebecca’s father would have objected and it was all moot as they seemed to be going back out the door. James sighed and tapped Lord Hanton on the shoulder to get his attention. He quietly asked if Grey’s accomplices had been caught.

  Lord Hanton glanced at Rebecca and then at Caroline. “It might be best discussed when the ladies are out of earshot.”

  “Really?” Rebecca looked nonplussed. “After all that has transpired? Surely I have proven my ability to withstand shocks. After all, if I can survive being kidnapped, I can certainly deal with a discussion about it.”

  “Yes, yes, quite right.” Lord Hanton still looked uncomfortable. “Though this is not truly about the kidnapping. It’s more about … ahem … well … Grey was found in a house of … a house of ill repute. There were others with him, mostly students, but there was”—his eyes grew larger—“an older man with them. Sergeant Waters couldn’t say much but that he was described as going gray. A salt-and-pepper shock of hair.”

  Hanton started across the hall but turned back for another quick comment. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that we not only have your Mr. Paterson in custody, but the coachman as well.”

  With that, Lord Hanton disappeared into the drawing room.

  Just as James was about to do the same, he felt himself held back. He looked down to see Brant’s hand on his arm, pulling him aside.

  “I have been wondering,” his friend said in a hushed tone, “and questioning why it was that Grey did not kill Mr. Osborne.”

  James nodded. “I had wondered about that, as well. Perhaps he had no opportunity, too many people around or some such.”

  “It is a strange and twisted mind that would conceive to kill a man,” Brant said, “who might identify you as a murderer, all the while letting go of another man who would.”

  * * *

  “TRY TO THINK of something else, Rebecca,” James whispered softly. They were standing before the tall row of windows of the Harley Street drawing room, close but not touching. She had drawn back the draperies under the guise of getting a better view of the busy street below. But, in fact, she was more aware of the small group gathered in the center of the room than the scene before her eyes.

  Lord Hanton had taken a posit
ion beside the settee on which Caroline and Dr. Brant were seated. They discussed the weather; it was a banal, distracted conversation. The wait was difficult for everyone.

  The imagery of her dream replayed in her head. She needed to understand. She wanted someone to tell her that she was mistaken, that it wasn’t a memory, that she didn’t watch her sister die.

  Turning her head, Rebecca looked back into the room. The topic was now a concert that evening at Vauxhall Gardens, a performance of Handel’s Water Music. She shook her head, frowning; a concert was incongruous, frivolous, unworthy.

  “You need … we need a distraction,” Lord Hanton explained, and then scrubbed at his face. “There is nothing we can do until … I would not see you sick from waiting. Your poor brain is only recovering.”

  “I will not collapse with worry, Papa. I am made of stronger stuff.”

  “Yes, indeed. But a distraction can do nothing but help.” He walked over to Rebecca still standing by the window, and took both her hands into his own. “You must go.”

  At first, Rebecca couldn’t believe him to be serious. “I couldn’t possibly.” But she saw that any reference to her highly charged emotional state would only make him push the point further. “It would not be safe,” she finished lamely.

  “Grey is deep within the hollows of Scotland Yard and his henchman with him. Still, I could engage the peelers to follow you to the concert. I will return to Grosvenor Square to await word.” He squeezed her hands in what was likely meant to be reassurance, but he ruined the attempt by swallowing visibly and lifting his cheeks in an entirely false smile.

  * * *

  JAMES WAS IN a quandary. While on one hand he understood Rebecca’s distress, on the other, he, like Hanton, saw that it could be detrimental to her heath. She needed to put her mind on something else. It was no longer dangerous to venture out—certainly not with the peelers in tow and Grey in jail.

  As Hanton pressed for an agreement from his daughter, James saw the plaintive look that Rebecca cast him. He took Rebecca’s hand, entwined their fingers, and led her to the next window. Lord Hanton snorted and returned to the center of the room.

  “It might help his distress, Rebecca. To believe—even if falsely—that you are occupied. That you are not suffering, as he is. I believe he wants to protect you.” James lifted her chin so that he could stare into her eyes. The ache there almost undid him. He caressed her jaw with his thumb, wishing her father were not just feet away. He wanted to kiss her, gently, tenderly. Help her forget, even if only for a moment.

  He resigned himself to a smile. “Your father believes the end is in sight. To him, we are just hours away from knowing about your sister—for good or ill, at least we will know.” He had to hold her hand tightly as she tried to pull away. “He sees your keyed-up state and wants to alleviate it. There is nothing any of us can do but wait—distraction might make the time go faster.”

  “It won’t,” Rebecca said firmly, and then she closed her eyes briefly. She took a deep breath before continuing. “But if—” She glanced over at the forlorn figure in the middle of the room. “But if my going to Vauxhall tonight will relieve him, even for a moment, then I will do so. For I believe we are heading into dark days when something such as a frivolous concert will provide no reprieve at all.”

  * * *

  NATURALLY, Henry was the first to declare their search worthless. He had no emotion, other than ego, vested in the project. “We have been looking for hours, and more important, I have missed tea.”

  Walter thought that his friend had also missed the intent of sleuthing entirely, and was not impressed. He, on the other hand, had not expected an easy game of it. More than two weeks had passed since the original discovery of the trail, and in that time nature had filled in as many nooks and crannies as it could in the spirit of rebirth. There appeared to be no broken branches or misshapen shrubs anywhere.

  Eventually, Jack had found the scent and tracked it to the ruins, but from there, he was stymied. Starting off in one direction, the dog would then turn and head in the opposite. Clearly, the retriever was baffled, forcing the deputy and the boys to walk the open ground, heads down, looking for a trail, but the hard earth gave up no clues.

  Walking across to the cliff edge, Walter postulated that a cave or opening of some sort might provide a refuge or at least a waiting spot for the coachman. But try as he might, he could not find a way down the cliffs. It seemed virtually impossible.

  “I believe we must call it a day,” Mr. Strickland said as they turned from the cliffs and stood facing the hall. It loomed large behind the ruins; light was beginning to show through the lower windows as the evening came on.

  They stood and stared for some minutes.

  “Has there been any new hires at Risely?” Mr. Strickland asked eventually.

  “No idea.” Henry shrugged. “Workers for the ruins, of course, but other than that you’d have to ask Dipple.” He referred to the family butler.

  “Indeed.” Mr. Strickland left the boys where they were standing. Walking back over the field, his expression was thoughtful, distracted.

  Walter shook his head and looked around. “Henry, have you seen Jack?” The retriever had disappeared.

  Henry pointed to the other side of the drive. “He was there, last I saw him.” He turned away from the sight of Mr. Strickland’s receding back. “I’ll help you look,” he sighed. “But lawks, I’m done to a cow’s thumb.”

  With slow, tired steps, they made their way back across the heath. As they reached the drive, they could hear echoed barking.

  Walter laughed. “He’s gone into your ruins.” He whistled for Jack to come.

  Henry perked up. “Do you want to see them?”

  “Henry, I hate to point out the obvious, but I can see the keep from here.”

  “Not the inside.”

  “Inside?”

  “Yes … I am not supposed to go in.” Henry glanced up at the hall. “But I have been dying to take a look. I’m sure it’s safe.”

  “Lawks, really? You never told me.”

  “I did, too, but your mind was on other things. Kept interrupting me. Cared more about the color of your waistcoat—not that I blamed you.”

  Walter ignored his friend’s sullen tone and waved for Henry to show the way.

  One of the walls had been built as if the foundations had fallen and now lay scattered at its sides. They provided stepping-stones up the five-foot climb and then down into the enclosure. It was a clever way to hide the entrance.

  The center of the keep was open and featureless, the edges lined with fractured half towers and crumbled windows, but in the northeast corner, the tower seemed partially intact. An arched opening led underneath, and once inside, the facade of antiquity faded away. Walter paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the half-light and he listened.

  Jack’s barking was no longer continuous but irregular and sounded just as distant.

  “Could he have fallen down something?” he asked Henry.

  “There is a dungeon.”

  “A dungeon?”

  “Yeah. She wanted to add something no one else would have in their ruins.” Henry seldom referred to his mother by name; he snorted. “Uncle wrote to suggest a dungeon. I know he was kidding, but she took him seriously and the dungeon was added.”

  The barking was getting weaker and staccato. “Where is this bloody dungeon?” Walter could feel his pulse quickening; Jack’s bark was suffused with alarm.

  “I don’t know. I’ve not been in here before.”

  Stumbling to the back wall, Walter ran his hand across the rough surface, feeling his way forward. He almost fell when the wall opened up into a stairwell. Jack’s barking echoed up from below. Rushing ahead of Henry, Walter saw a light below, making his journey easier as he descended. They ran down the passage, following the sounds of the dog.

  If they had been less concerned, they would have been thinking a little more clearly and paused to consider the existe
nce of lit torches in an unoccupied tunnel. However, Walter entertained no thought of his own danger or conceived of what else he might find, until he ran past a thick wooden door and into the heavily shadowed room beyond. Here they were forced to stop and recognize the folly of their actions, for the retriever was not alone.

  Three sets of human eyes were locked on them. The pockmarked face immediately caught Walter’s attention; the coachman’s expression was not of surprise, but of satisfaction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Trapped

  As the last strains of the violins faded into the cavernous dome of the rotunda, Rebecca breathed in deeply. It had been a mistake; she should never have relented. The concert was not a distraction; it was an intrusion. She had not stopped thinking of Elizabeth through the entire performance. She felt twitchy and wanted to return to the carriage immediately. The excursion’s only value had been a slight lifting of despair in her father’s expression as he had waved them off.

  Rebecca shifted forward on her seat so that she might catch Caroline’s eye, hidden behind James. “Lovely. Shall we go?” she asked her companions, realizing the rigidity of her back over the past hour.

  “I believe this is the intermission,” Caroline said. “Do you not wish—?” Something in Rebecca’s expression answered her query before it was fully expressed. Caroline laid her arm on Dr. Brant’s and they all rose. “We can admire the gardens on the way to the gates,” she said airily.

  Outside, the small gaslights twinkled brightly, eclipsing the stars far above. The smell of the famous Vauxhall ham wafted through the air, increasing Rebecca’s unceasing nausea. The crowds were full of the indulged and the indulgent, replete in the latest fashions, talking to one another with great animation and little decorum.

  With few known acquaintances, Rebecca’s small party of four could expect no interruption as they followed the Grand Walk to the front gates and the waiting carriage. It was a joy to be so judiciously ignored.