A woman sat on a low chair among the clothing, needle in her hands. She was middle-aged turning to elderly, a once-plump body thinning, hair going gray under a cap. She pushed the needle into a bodice she was mending in one smooth movement, fingers graceful as she pulled the thread through. She didn’t look at the fabric or even at us but somewhere in the middle distance.
“Mrs. Wolff,” Coleman said in a loud voice. “They’re here. Miss Simmons and her gent . . . er . . .”
“Captain Lacey,” I said, moving forward and holding out my hand.
Mrs. Wolff didn’t turn to us. I understood why when I saw the opaque film over her wide pupils. She wasn’t being rude. She was blind.
“Do you trust him, Miss Simmons?” Mrs. Wolff asked, still stitching. Her head cocked, as though she listened for the answer. Her voice was faintly laced with Cockney, but she spoke as one who’d practiced until she’d taken the back streets out of her speech.
“I do,” Marianne said. “Captain Lacey, may I introduce Mrs. Hannah Wolff?”
I gave a startled exclamation, and Mrs. Wolff chuckled. “They all do that. Yes, my dear, I am Hannah Wolff, the celebrated actress. If you’re old enough, you’ll have seen my Lady Macbeth. If you’re truly old enough, you’ll have seen my Juliet.”
“I saw you as Gertrude,” I said, almost reverently. Hannah Wolff had breathed life into the role, as she had every role, but that night as Gertrude she’d been magnificent. Her performance had all but obscured the other actors on the stage. Hamlet hadn’t been Hamlet’s play that night; it had been hers.
“You’re old enough then,” she said. “I didn’t want Marianne fetching some young officer back from the army with nothing to do. He wouldn’t care.”
“Captain Lacey is not young,” Marianne said. Very flattering—I was a little over forty. “But young enough. He’s lame, but he walks around quite easily. He’s also getting married in the next few days and so is a bit impatient.”
“My felicitations,” Mrs. Wolff said. “But if you’re getting married, you won’t be interested in our problem.”
I was growing a bit tired of people telling me what did and did not interest me. I found a chair that was free of clothing, drew it close to Mrs. Wolff, and sat down, planting my hands on my cane. “I am interested. Forgive me for sitting. The cold makes my leg ache.”
“Please, be comfortable, Captain,” Hannah said. “Well then, Marianne must have told you a little about it. Abigail Collins is a dear friend of mine. When I got run down by a dray and two heavy horses and lost my sight some years ago, I wasn’t good for walking around the stage no more. Abby made sure I kept my place in the company, coaching other ladies on their parts. If someone hands me the right pieces of clothing, I can sew them together or help the ladies into them. I am very good at fitting clothes now—the hands can see what the eyes don’t. I became Abigail’s dresser. She has a voice like a cathedral bell. She says a word on a stage, and she’s heard in the back row, with all the emotion dripping from it. The punters love her.”
“I’ve seen her perform,” I said. “I agree, she is astonishing. As you were.”
“Too kind, Captain. But this summer, Abigail up and went, and I ain’t heard a word from her since. She’s not written—Coleman or my sister read all my letters out to me. But they say she’s not sent anything for a long while.”
“Did she stop to say good-bye when she left?”
“She did,” Hannah said. “It were nothing unusual. She was off to the seaside—Brighton—where she goes every summer for her health, then on to Bath for more water. A great one for bathing, is Abby. She always comes back before the season starts, though, to have Christmas with me and my sister and husband and practice her parts for the coming plays. My sister used to act as well, though she gave it up for soft living, and never looked back.” Hannah stopped and sighed. “But this year, Abby never arrived.”
“Perhaps she lingered in Brighton or Bath to do a few plays,” I suggested. The great actors and actresses sometimes spent time with provincial companies, to help them pull an audience, or simply for the enjoyment of it.
“I’d have heard, wouldn’t I?” Hannah said. “She’d have written, or Coleman would have seen notices in the newspapers. Abby doesn’t write many letters, but she’s good about imparting news or telling us she’s delayed.”
Coleman broke in from his place by the door. “Tell him about the box.”
Hannah pushed the needle into the fabric and left it there, her fingers remaining on it. “The box puts a different complexion on it, you see. Terrible thing, it was.”
“A box?” I asked when she paused to shake her head. “Something in a box here at the theatre?”
“No, a parcel,” Marianne broke in. “Delivered to Abigail before she went.”
“From?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Hannah said. “We don’t know. They tell me it came from a reputable London delivery firm.”
“Aye,” Coleman said in his gravelly voice. “Fuller and Hamilton’s. Package done up the same as any. The delivery man was nervous, said the gent what dropped it off was laughing and saying the delivery man should be very, very careful not to shake it.”
Hannah reached out her hand and patted the air, as though trying to comfort Coleman.
“Coleman saved us all, he did,” Hannah said. “He takes the parcel away from Abby and opens it himself. Inside is a wooden box, very pretty, he says, like from a shop. Coleman, he was in the war, and he sniffs it and says he smells gunpowder. He dropped the box into a tub of water and opened it slowly. What do you think, Captain? The sides were done up so that a spark when the box was opened would ignite packed gunpowder. Coleman said there’d been enough powder and bits inside to blow off poor Abigail’s face.”
“Good Lord,” I said, blinking. I looked at Coleman, who gave me a slow nod. “Thank God for Coleman’s quick thinking.”
“Aye,” Hannah said. “I was glad he was on hand. But Abby was shaken, I can tell you.”
“I do not blame her,” I said. Using gunpowder to fight in war was one thing; delivering a package of it to kill an innocent woman was something else altogether. “Did anyone go round to the delivery company and ask who sent the parcel?”
“I did, sir,” Coleman said. “No one there had seen the man before. They described him as medium height, about the same as any gent, a bit spindly. Dressed well enough, they said, and paid the fee.”
A good description, but it could fit many men in London. I turned back to Hannah.
“Do you know of any other threats or attempts to hurt Mrs. Collins?”
Hannah shook her head. “That was the main one. I know Abby got bad letters, but she never showed them to me or talked about them. I knew because of the way she acted, all brisk and bright, when you could tell she was scared senseless.”
Marianne said, “And that’s why I asked you to look into it, Lacey. Because it’s more than an actress taking some time for herself, isn’t it? We want to know if whoever was trying to kill her succeeded. Surely you can spare us ten minutes for that.”
Chapter Two
Hannah was correct—the incident did put a different complexion on the situation.
“Why did you not say so at once?” I asked her. “And why did you not mention this six months ago when it happened?”
Marianne shrugged in her maddening way. “I did not think you’d believe me. I only grew worried when Abby didn’t return and didn’t write, and Hannah asked me to help. You were busy running off to Norfolk, planning your wedding . . . I wanted you to hear the story from Hannah and Coleman before you judged. You have the habit of dismissing what comes out of my mouth.”
I started to disagree then fell silent. She was not wrong. I might have brushed off Marianne’s tale as exaggeration or embellished to gain my interest if I had not heard of the incident from Hannah.
Hannah could not tell us much more, however. The extent of what she knew was Abigail Collins had received letters that upset he
r and then the frightening package.
Everyone in this room believed Abigail to be in real danger. I’d not have been let into this private sanctum otherwise, I realized.
I wished I could reassure them, but I could not. Obviously Mrs. Collins had an enemy, perhaps more than one. No one decided to send a person a box of gunpowder if they did not mean to cause real harm. A rival actress, perhaps? From stories Marianne had told me, I knew actors could be cruel to one another as they competed for roles or places in a company.
Actresses also sometimes took lovers, and those lovers might be married. Perhaps an angry wife had sought revenge. Or perhaps someone from Mrs. Collins’ past was threatening her. I had not much to go on.
Hannah had drooped a bit after she delivered her last speech. Marianne rose and shot me a look, and I got to my feet. I made Hannah a bow, though I knew she couldn’t see me, and I complimented her again on the roles I’d seen her play.
She dismissed me as a base flatterer before she picked up her mending, but I could tell she was pleased. I did not exaggerate—Hannah Wolff had truly had the gift. The accident that had robbed her of her career was tragic indeed.
“Where do you think Mrs. Collins is, Coleman?” I asked as the man led us back through the hallways to the stage door.
“Don’t know. But I don’t like thinking she ain’t safe.” The large man sent me a worried look. “Miss Simmons says you can find anybody. She right, sir?”
Miss Simmons stood next to me looking innocent. I gave Coleman a nod. “I will certainly try. I do not like the story I’ve heard tonight.”
“Thank you, sir.” Coleman sounded relieved as he opened the door and let us out into the cold. “We’re all so very worried.”
I put on my hat as I stepped out into the dark passage. I was worried myself, and not happy that Marianne had chosen to tell me about Abigail’s disappearance so late in the proceedings. Many things could have happened to her between leaving in the summer and now.
Coleman seemed ready to be rid of us at the moment. He said a truncated good night and closed the door quickly behind us, shutting out the light and warmth.
“Well?” Marianne asked as she put her hand on my arm as we walked back to Russel Street. The short afternoon had drawn to a close as we’d talked to Hannah, and now the lane was nearly black, a fog seeping up from the river to chill us.
“Well?” I asked in return.
“Will you be leaving for Brighton, or maybe Bath?”
“Neither at the moment,” I said. “I will be going to Oxfordshire, to get married.”
“Your wedding’s not for two days. Surely you can stop at Bath before you run to your nuptials, and see if Abby’s there.”
I was about to snap that Marianne was sanguine about the time it took to journey around England, but I closed my mouth. She was truly frightened.
“I promise I will do what I can,” I said. “Both before I leave and after I return.”
And I would. Abigail Collins was in danger, no doubt of that. She might have decided she was safer hidden in Brighton or Bath—I hoped with friends she could trust. On the other hand, her enemy might have found her and done something irreversible. That I did not like to contemplate, but I’d seen too much evil in my life to dismiss what Mrs. Collins could face.
“I can begin inquiries at least,” I said. “Discreet ones—I give you my word I won’t put Abigail into any danger if she’s being hunted. I’ll talk to the delivery firm. They might remember something about the sender, though I have little hope of turning up new information. And Grenville must know people in Bath and in Brighton who might be able to help. But I really cannot postpone my trip to Oxfordshire.”
Marianne gave me a dark look. She knew I could not, but she would continue to be displeased about it.
Fog grew thicker by the minute as we walked along Russel Street toward Covent Garden and Grimpen Lane. Marianne shrank to me, not only for warmth but also for protection against pickpockets or robbers who might use the fog for concealment.
I believed someone followed us, but they kept to the shadows, stopping when I turned to look. A predator? Or one of Grenville’s servants, assigned to keep an eye on Marianne. More probably, it was a man or men belonging to James Denis, sent to watch me.
We reached the turnoff to Grimpen Lane without incident. Marianne signaled a landau—Grenville’s—waiting in Russel Street in the direction of Covent Garden. The coachman saw her, nudged the horses forward, and made his way toward us.
“Will you let me know what you’ve found before you rush off to your wedding?” Marianne asked as the coach stopped next to her.
“Of course. Though I doubt I will have a chance to discover much before I leave.”
“As you like.” Marianne accepted my hand to help her inside, and I shut the door for her. She put her head out the open window. “Thank you, Lacey,” she said sincerely.
I stepped back from the landau, the coachman started the team, and the carriage rolled off into the fog. I settled my coat and walked into the dark mouth of Grimpen Lane.
Fingers landed on my arm. I grabbed the wrist the hand was attached to, swung around, and brought up my walking stick.
A soft gasp came out of the fog. I stopped, startled, and stepped back, looking down into the face of a young woman I knew. She looked back up at me, alarm in her dark eyes.
“Felicity,” I said in surprise, releasing her. “Where did you—”
My words were cut off by a heavy blow between my shoulders. Not from Felicity, but from someone behind me, ready to rob me while the lovely Felicity distracted me.
I swung around with my stick, but the darkness and fog made me as blind as Hannah. A cudgel from a second attacker smacked me in the side, in my ribs. I struck out again, this time contacting a body with my stick, drawing forth a grunt.
Another blow landed on my back and then on my injured knee. I cursed as lightning pain lashed through me, and I fell.
“Don’t kill him, for God’s sake,” I heard Felicity say.
Kind of her. I swung my stick again, trained to go on fighting no matter how much I hurt. On the battlefield, fighting meant survival.
On the streets of London, it meant my attackers increased their assault. I took another blow to the ribs and then one to the head. White spots danced before my eyes. I managed to get my sword out of the cane, and I stabbed upward. I heard someone yell, and then another blow to my head made everything darker than the surrounding fog.
*** *** ***
I awoke cold, wet, hungry, and very, very angry.
The light in the room was weak, but it stabbed through my eyes when I opened them, increasing the fierce pain in my head. I let out a groan between dry, cracked lips.
A glass landed against my mouth, and fiery liquid trickled inside. Gin. Foul stuff. But at the moment, the only thing that wet my tongue. I swallowed, feeling the gin burn all the way down to my stomach.
“Thank the Lord,” a woman’s voice said. “I thought they’d gone and hit you too hard.”
“Felicity.” At least, I tried to say the word. My tongue blocked my mouth, and very little came out.
“They made me.” She sounded angry. “I didn’t want to do it, Captain, but he said they’d kill you, and me too, if I didn’t bring you along.”
“He who?”
She didn’t enlighten me, or perhaps my words came out an incoherent jumble. The light in the room was feeble, a rush light that did little to illuminate.
I concentrated on staying awake, though the gin engulfed me with waves of sleepiness. I’d seen enough head wounds on the battlefield to know that going to sleep could be deadly. I reached out, surprised when my hand worked, and managed to touch Felicity.
“Why?” I asked.
Felicity bent over me, her hair hanging down in a straight black swath. “I didn’t ask him.”
She might be lying, and she might not. Felicity was a game girl, but she had intelligence and was a little more observant tha
n the other girls of the streets. She hadn’t picked up the Cockney or other London dialects of her colleagues, speaking with more care and less slang.
From what I understood, Felicity’s mother had been a slave brought here from Jamaica; Felicity’s father English or European. Her mother, freed in England, had become a housemaid, raising Felicity to be the same.
Felicity hadn’t fared well in service. She’d told me the man of the house at her last place had taken plenty of liberties with her, threatening her with dismissal and ruin if she denied him. She’d decided that, if men wanted such things, she might as well make some profit from it, instead of spending her days hiding from her employer. Her dark skin, smooth black hair, and large brown eyes made her sought after on the streets, though of late, she’d taken up with my old sergeant, Pomeroy, now a Bow Street Runner. I did not think Pomeroy would approve of her helping to snatch his former captain away in the fog, however.
“I’m getting married, damn it.”
Felicity leaned closer. “Don’t try to talk. You’re hurting, but it will soon be over.”
With what? My death?
I’d spent the last two years angering dangerous people—easy for me with my hot temper, my stringent views of right and wrong, and my tendency to poke into things that were none of my business. I’d annoyed Bow Street and its magistrates as well as high-placed gentlemen in army regiments, lordships, underworld criminals, the headmaster of a prestigious school, a powerful woman who ran brothels, and various other men about town.
I also knew many secrets of one very dangerous man, James Denis. Perhaps he’d decided I knew too much about what he’d done in Norfolk.
“Denis,” I said.
Felicity understood. “I told them. I told them what would happen if Mr. Denis got word. But they wouldn’t listen.”
Hmm, perhaps not Denis then. Upon reflection, the abduction was all wrong for him. Denis had captured me once before but known I’d get away. I’d come to understand that if Denis wanted me dead, he’d kill me before I realized it had happened.
I found if I took my time and had patience, I could form words that were somewhat discernible. “Who has brought me here?”
A Disappearance in Drury Lane Page 2
