by Cindy Anstey
It was just a short distance from the north side of the bridge to St. Katherine’s Docks, but it felt interminable. As they approached the gates, the conversation lagged. The streets were quiet. The night was well advanced and a change in temperature had brought with it the inevitable wisps of fog.
Mr. Renfrew alit to speak to the gatekeeper and then rejoined them with a serious face. The carriage passed under the warehouse arch and turned left. It passed row after row of warehouses and sheds built tightly together with few alleys and walks.
“Well, now that we are here…,” Mr. Renfrew interrupted the silence. He glanced from Rebecca to Caroline, his face clouded. “I apologize if this is an indelicate question, but might you explain why we are here?”
Caroline felt the pace of the horses ease off, and the carriage came to a standstill.
* * *
REBECCA SHIFTED TOWARD the door. “I am afraid I cannot explain fully as yet, Mr. Renfrew. But I can say that Inspector Davis and Lord Ellerby are trying to help me retrieve a lost item. They are most diligent men and to have relied so heavily upon your good favor, to see us safely home, could only mean that it has been found.”
“Really! But, my dear, why do you need to be present when it is found? I believe I should not have been persuaded. I should have taken you straight to Harley Street as Ellerby requested.”
“Oh no, sir.” Rebecca grabbed the door handle and stepped out of the carriage before she had finished her sentence. She was deathly afraid that the kindly gentleman would order the carriage away. “I need to be there when—”
Rebecca looked down the street, ahead of the carriage. She couldn’t see any movement. She turned her head so that she was facing the direction from which they had come. Still nothing moved.
There was no activity at all. No other vehicles waited nearby and no steps echoed through the night. She faced the warehouse, looking for a light or telltale movement that might inform them where James and Dr. Brant waited. But all was still.
“It is very quiet here,” Mr. Renfrew said, echoing her thoughts.
Rebecca scanned the building in front of them. A door, not ten yards away, was ajar. It led into a dark warehouse, yet somehow it seemed like an invitation … somehow it felt familiar.
“Misses Hanton?” Mr. Renfrew said, trying to get her attention.
“Rebecca?” Caroline’s voice was apprehensive. “Rebecca, are you—”
Rebecca picked up the full skirts of her evening gown and rushed to the warehouse door. She pushed it open fully and heard the bang reverberate through the large, hollow building. She sensed rather than saw her companions behind her, but she didn’t glance back.
Inside, the spacious hall was wide, and when her eyes adjusted to what little light was shining through the windows, she saw that the walls were many shades of graying cedar. Her mind was filled—her mental void was heaped to capacity with thoughts and emotions—memories of family, friends, laughter, and sorrow. Memories of this very place where the horror had begun.
“Caroline, this is it!” Rebecca shouted. She didn’t wait for an answer but plunged ahead.
The warehouse was full of signs and labels, boxes and crates all in rough pale pine. There was a sweet smell to the air, a mixture of cane, fresh wood, and sawdust. She ran to the back of the warehouse and easily found the other door. It led into the smaller room with a high ceiling overcrowded with more boxes and crates, more than she remembered being here three fortnights ago.
The floor was still covered in sawdust, and in the center of the room was the very crate that she had been forced to sit on. Forced to watch …
Mr. Renfrew lit a lamp by the door and Caroline rushed to her side. Slowly the room began to illuminate.
“Rebecca, are you all right?” Her voice echoed, bouncing down from the ceiling.
“This is it, Caroline.” Rebecca’s voice was shaky but not weak. “This is the room in my dreams. This is where—” She twisted her head, trying to peer around the stacked crates. “Where do you think…?” Finally, she looked toward the door.
Another man stepped out of the shadows and stood beside Mr. Renfrew, blocking the only exit. His hair, straight and dark, was brushed backward on the sides, falling just below the nape of his neck. He had hazel eyes and a characterless face, except for a small scar on his chin. He looked all too familiar.
Neither of the men had said anything. They were simply waiting, and Rebecca knew why.
Renfrew had called her Misses Hanton in the carriage. He had not been surprised by the empty street or shocked by her blind race through the warehouse. He was simply waiting, waiting to see if she remembered.
And she did.
Caroline stared slack-jawed at the man standing beside Mr. Renfrew. “Mr. Paterson?” She sounded incredulous.
“No, indeed. I’d like to introduce…” Renfrew laughed in a sharp, unpleasant staccato. “Reintroduce, Kyle Saunders, my partner’s son. Though I do say he did a credible job playing Mr. Paterson.”
Rebecca straightened and swallowed against the sour bile that had crawled up her throat. She grabbed Caroline’s hand tightly and pulled her close. She tried to place herself in front of her friend but Caroline resisted, not understanding. Rebecca slowly backed up, taking Caroline with her until they could go no farther.
“Is something wrong, Misses Hanton?” Mr. Renfrew smiled none too kindly.
“What have you done with Elizabeth?” Rebecca asked. She heard Caroline stifle a gasp.
Mr. Renfrew exuded as jovial and harmless a nature as ever. “Oh dear, you were right, Kyle.” His eyes turned for a fraction toward the man in question as he chuckled. “She remembers. I had so hoped to avoid this unpleasantness.”
“Perhaps you should have continued referring to me as Miss Dobbins.”
He laughed. “Is that what gave me away?”
Caroline clenched Rebecca’s hand so tightly she thought she might lose sensation in it.
“That, this room, and my memory.”
“An abundance of reasons, my dear.” Mr. Renfrew shook his head. “I guess we were doomed from the start.”
“Doomed,” mocked Mr. Saunders as he reached into his boot and drew out a slim, finely honed dagger. When the light caught it, neither Caroline nor Rebecca was surprised to see that the dark wood hilt gently curved into the shape of a hummingbird.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dungeons and Daggers
“I believe it is my turn to ask questions.” Mr. Smythe didn’t look as smug as he sounded. Perspiration dripped down his temples despite the less than balmy temperature of the underground chamber. “Where are Rebecca and Elizabeth?” He aimed his pistol at the coachman.
Roy interrupted with a wail. “Golly, we is in fer it now!”
“Shut yer yap, Roy. We don’t know nothing,” the coachman, Greg Brill, snapped. “Don’t know no Rebecca or Elizabeth.”
“I believe you do.” Mr. Smythe lifted his arm to chest height. “Where are Rebecca and Elizabeth?”
“Beth?” Walter turned to stare at the man. “You are looking for Beth? Are you a relation, or … her … husband?”
“Husband?!” Smythe’s jaw clenched. “She is just sixteen.”
“Rot!” Walter snorted in disagreement. “She’s older than that!”
Keeping his eyes on Greg Brill, Smythe frowned. “Elizabeth is sixteen, Rebecca is eighteen.” He raised the pistol to the coachman’s eye level. “Where are they?”
Walter, oblivious to the hostilities, rubbed his temples and stared into the air. “Does Rebecca have thick straight brown hair, hazel eyes, and a tendency toward obstinacy?”
The corners of Smythe’s mouth twitched. “Indeed.”
Walter snapped his tongue and shouted, “Aha!” thereby distracting Smythe, who turned slightly toward Walter.
Brill lunged. He twisted the pistol in Smythe’s grasp, but it fired before either had control. The horrendous report almost covered a yelp of surprise and pain. Walter grabbed Henry’s arm just i
n time to slow his fall; Henry’s legs buckled and he sat heavily on the floor. Blood streamed through Henry’s fingers. Jack ran to his side, pushing his muzzle into Henry’s face.
At the same time, Roy reached for the door. He tried to shove aside Henry and Jack, who blocked his way. He had almost succeeded when Walter slammed the man’s head into the wall. Staggering, Roy wiped at the blood now dripping from his forehead, and then swung his fist at Walter.
The blow to Walter’s jaw sent him reeling backward. Grabbing an unlit torch from the floor, Walter swung it double-handed at Roy. The man dropped to the floor and lay unconscious across the threshold.
Turning quickly, Walter saw that Mr. Smythe was in trouble. The firing of the pistol had taken the advantage from him. It lay powerless on the stone floor, spent and forgotten. The contest was now for the knife. Both Smythe and Brill had their hands locked around the hilt, but it was inching its way closer and closer to Smythe’s chest.
Walter lifted his torch to shoulder height, but just as he had the coachman in position, the men contorted and twisted. For several moments the two struggled, shifting constantly, never allowing Walter the chance to change the odds. Finally Walter dropped his useless weapon and seized the back of Smythe’s coat. With all his strength, he yanked the man back.
All three men fell to the floor. Regrettably, the coachman retained the knife and Smythe sported a nasty cut on his hand. However, the advantage was theirs again, for Walter and Smythe—and in his own way, Henry—stood between the coachman and the door.
Walter and Smythe were quick to their feet. Brill’s movements were slow and furtive; his eyes darting between them and the opening.
“Where are they?” Smythe asked again.
Brill’s smile was repulsive.
Walter picked up the torch and swung it just inches from the coachman’s nose.
The man didn’t flinch. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ h’about. I’m just a poor harmless worker, trying to earn a decent living.” The man inched slowly around the wall as the lies spilled from his mouth.
Walter wanted to hit him just so he would shut up. But the pounding in his ears was getting more and more distracting. He shook his head to clear it, then realized that the sound was not coming from inside his brain, or even inside this room. The non-rhythmic thumping echoed in spits and spurts. It was odd, very odd.
Smythe squatted and pawed at the floor around him, trying to locate his pistol without looking away from Brill. Before Smythe could find it, the coachman ducked under Walter’s torch and threw his shoulder into Smythe’s chest. It sent them both sprawling across the floor.
Walter threw his weight into a tremendous swing of his torch but the coachman rolled to safety at the last second. The momentum twisted Walter around and he landed on his knees, his head banging against the iron grate door. Shaking his head gingerly, Walter turned to watch the struggle for the knife begin anew.
Brill fell on Smythe, but the younger man met the coachman at every turn. With each lunge, Smythe forced Brill into a stalemate. Then Brill jerked the knife up, out of Smythe’s hold, and sliced down into his thigh. By the time Smythe shouted out in pain, Brill was halfway to the door.
Henry still sat where he had fallen, blocking the threshold, his sleeve soaked in blood. As Brill jumped over him, Henry let go of his wound and grabbed. The limb slipped through his grasp but the pant leg did not. The man tumbled over Henry’s back. The coachman must have landed on Roy, for the sound was more of a thud than a crash.
About to shout hurrah, Walter saw a foot come up behind Henry. He had no time to warn his friend; Henry received a vicious kick to the head. He dropped the pant leg and rocked with the force of the blow, his eyes wide with pain.
Walter grabbed the grate, ignoring the pressure of a goose egg forming on his temple. He used the iron bars as leverage and pulled himself to his feet. When at last he was upright, he pushed himself away and turned.
The door was open and Brill was gone.
* * *
“I AM SORRY for all the bungling this past month or so, my dear. This is certainly not the way I had planned it.” Mr. Renfrew looked as cordial as if he were discussing the weather. “It has just been one mistake after another. I have come to the conclusion that people never do what you expect them to do. Well…” He laughed and stepped farther into the room, then dusted off a crate and sat down. “Most don’t.”
Mr. Saunders remained standing. The hummingbird dagger swung from hand to hand, side to side.
Rebecca tried not to look at it. She knew that if she did, she would be lost in the motion.
“My sister seems to be the exception,” Renfrew continued. “I knew she would be incensed at the idea of leaving the concert early. Her dissatisfaction about the seating arrangements was just the added touch that I needed. Quite handy.”
He looked into the air above their heads as if reliving the scene in his mind. “Yes, this evening my plans finally worked out.” He turned his eyes back to them. “The driver was, of course, paid to bring us here no matter how we directed him. How delightful that you allowed us to do so under the auspices of fulfilling your wishes. It made the ride so much more affable.”
“Glad we could oblige.” Caroline’s voice was cold—downright frosty.
Mr. Renfrew saw Caroline step out from behind Rebecca and misunderstood. “Sit, sit, Miss Ellerby, Misses Hanton, if you are tired. We may have to wait awhile.” He turned to Saunders. “When did I say they were coming?”
Saunders’ eyes never left Rebecca’s. “Just before midnight.”
Renfrew drew out his pocket watch and consulted it. “Plenty of time.” He tucked it away carefully. “I thought it would take us longer to maneuver the men away. But they were so eager to escape Margaret. Poor Margaret, her own worst enemy.” He noticed that Rebecca had not moved. “Sit, ladies, be comfortable. We have at least half an hour to kill, if you’ll excuse the expression.” He snickered as if at a private joke.
They didn’t move. Rebecca found it easier now to concentrate. Caroline’s move had partially blocked the swinging motion from her peripheral vision.
“You do realize that you have played your hand too close to home this time,” Rebecca said. “Whatever your plans with us, Lord Ellerby and Dr. Brant know who you are. You will be apprehended.”
“Come, come, my dear. You should think better of me than that.” Renfrew sounded disappointed. “The wild goose chase that I sent your men on was on the pretext of a stranger’s information. It took very little to elicit a request to return you to Harley Street. They likely believe it was their idea. So you see, I am a good Samaritan. In the morning, I will be found dazed and disheveled, having been thrown from the carriage. They know nothing of Kyle.”
“Such a masterful plan.” Rebecca took a deep breath. “But the police already suspect Mr. Saunders. They know that it was he who kidnapped Elizabeth and me.”
“No, Misses Hanton,” Saunders interrupted. He smiled a slow, superior grimace. “They suspect Grey. The name that I gave to them. Osborne is such a fool; he could barely recall who I was, let alone my name. I simply reintroduced myself as Grey.” Saunders’ laugh had nothing to do with humor.
Rebecca swallowed hard and bit her bottom lip. “Why are you doing this?”
“I am trying to prevent a great travesty; and as always, there are sacrifices to be made for the greater good.” Mr. Renfrew sounded genuinely regretful. And then he grinned. It sent a chill up Rebecca’s spine. “If the letters of marque are repealed, the fortunes of the ship owners in the West Indies will be in jeopardy. It will bankrupt the entire country. I am the owner of three such privateer ships. This legislation will wreck us all. I simply will not have it.”
“If you feel it is ruinous for the islands, why not argue through the proper channels? Lawyers, lobbyists, clergy?” Rebecca asked with a shiver of revulsion. “Why bring to bear such pressure on my father? Kidnap us? Surely, the vote of one man will not make a difference.
”
Renfrew squinted and smiled in an odd parody of an amiable man. “Oh … but you are so very wrong. These great gentlemen are like sheep; they huddle together in groups and follow. Lord Hanton will have no problem convincing others to vote against the repeal. With his support, the letters of marque will still stand. We will be able to continue attacking foreign ships with impunity.
“If there had been another way, we might have taken it. But the vote is too close—and this is too much fun. Threats and fearful faces … You look quite terrified, my dear. It’s most stimulating.” He snorted and then chuckled under his breath. “We need the letters of marque to stand—they are our life blood.” He laughed heartily at his own words. “So you see your father, being a man of great respect, will lead the sheep. Though it is unfortunate for you and your sister.”
“Unfortunate for us as well,” Saunders remarked with a fair amount of acid.
Mr. Renfrew glanced over to the younger man. “Yes, well, we thought Lord Hanton’s affection couldn’t be overridden by principles. We never thought that he would simply withdraw.” He looked over to Rebecca, still standing stiffly beside the crate. “So you see, we are back to where we started. People never do what you expect them to do. But I still believe he can be persuaded.”
“Why did you kill Daisy?”
“Well, my dear, she guessed who I was. The girl was far too intelligent for her own good. Saunders had but asked a few benign questions. They were simple queries of you and the manor. Not only did she refuse to enlighten us, she also replied with too much sass for Saunders’ liking. Feisty, that girl, but it was rather irritating. Besides, Kyle has a temper.” He sighed as if he meant it. “Such a shame. He really needs to get that under control.”
Saunders smiled in such a way that Rebecca knew he had no intention of getting anything under control. He clearly relished the feel of unbridled anger.
The dagger continued to swing.
“And as I have said, Mr. Saunders played the role of Mr. Paterson, too,” Renfrew continued. “Although he was ultimately unsuccessful in that role as well.” He hesitated as if something had just come to mind. “Tell me, my dear, when did you get your memories back?”
