A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (33 page)

Rafe coughed up a bit of road dust as Melville settled into his old leather chair with its familiar squeak. “We’ve been expecting you for days, Mr. Lewis.”

“Sorry to take so long.” Rafe cleared his throat before continuing. “Ran into a bit of trouble on the road.”

Melville leaned back and pulled absently on a bushy sideburn. “Is that your blood or someone else’s on your jacket sleeve?”

Rafe glanced down. “I was grazed by a bullet earlier this morning.”

Melville grunted. “And where is Miss Greyville-Nugent?”

“Abducted, along with my son.”

“Christ Almighty.” Rafe hunkered down, ready for an
onslaught of invectives. “The last I heard,” Melville went on, “you and the heiress were on your way to London by some sort of underwater craft. When did this all happen?” Melville puffed himself up. “And what about the other chap, the inventor of the submersible?”

“Missing, presumed kidnapped.” Rafe rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “You didn’t receive a wire from Henley?”

“Some sort of backlog in the telegraph room.” Melville slumped in his chair and stared. “In your absence, we’ve rounded up the lot of them: magnates of industry, inventors—an uncommon bunch—rather extraordinary, really. Got them sequestered in a safe location. I’ll be glad when this damned industrial exposition is over.” Melville halted suddenly and blinked. “You have a son?”

“Who has a son?” Zeno Kennedy stood in the doorway with Melville’s secretary.

“I do.” Rafe shot up out of his chair. “I tailed the kidnappers to London. Lost them off Commercial Road.” Rafe tried to slow down—he knew he appeared wild-eyed and raving. “They disappeared into a block of warehouses on Henry Street. We must go after them. Is Flynn available, by any chance?”

“I believe so.” Zeno eyed Rafe. “Have you eaten anything all day?”

He shook his head.

Zeno pivoted toward Mr. Quincy, who had already anticipated his every request. “I’ll have Flynn Rhys called in.” The secretary exited with a bow. “And order a plate and pint from The Rising Sun for Mr. Lewis.”

“Very good, Mr. Quincy.” Melville’s signature scowl
eased. “Mr. Lewis, you’ll eat a bite of roast beef and get that arm looked at before you leave this office.” The cracked leather of the director’s chair whined as he settled in. “Sit back down. I’ll have the whole bloody story—and make it a good one.”

Zeno turned to Rafe with brows raised. “Might be wise to debrief, perhaps do a bit of strategizing—formulate a plan?”

“A plan.” Rafe almost smiled. “I daresay Fanny would approve.”

Zeno pulled up a chair, opened a file, and shook down his pen. “Take us through the last few days, Rafe. We need to know what you know.”

Between bites of roast beef and gulps of ale, Rafe went over the high and low points of the past few days, beginning with his investigation and the chase through the streets of Edinburgh. He recounted his and Fanny’s trek from Broxburn to Bathgate, leaving out the bath in the loch. A picture of Fanny tramping through the heather came to mind. Then he detailed their capture and subsequent escape from the mine-shaft outside Coatbridge. How could he ever forget the look on her face as she pedaled the old Rover down the lane—and their crash of bicycles?

Images of Fanny barraged his mind until someone cleared his throat. Rafe snapped back to reality. He realized both Zeno and Melville were waiting. “Sorry,” he said, continuing on with the tale of their chance meeting with Professor Minnow and their brief respite at the safe house in Dundas.

Zeno looked up from his scribbling. “The last wires I received were from Glasgow, one from you and one from Agent Curzon.”

“Good man. Saved my life in the Glasgow train station.” Rafe ended his story in Nettlebed, with the tale of the sunken submarine and his chase after the kidnappers.

Zeno closed one file and opened another. “How old is your boy?”

“Not quite five.”

“His name?”

Rafe eyed the file with his name on it. “Harrison Gabriel Lewis.”

Zeno looked up from the folder. “Is there a . . . Mrs. Lewis we should know about?”

“Deceased.”

A rap at the door brought a lab technician in to look at his wound. Zeno closed his file. Reluctantly, Rafe shrugged out of his shirt. He turned to confront stunned looks on the men’s faces. “What?”

“Christ, Rafe.” Zeno shook his head. “Is there a place on your body that isn’t wounded or bruised?”

He looked down at his torso. “Those last two tumbles off the carriage did a bit more damage than I thought.”

Zeno blinked. “You rode all the way to London in this state?”

“I can tape the ribs for now, but—” The technician got out several rolls of muslin cloth from a medical kit. “You should see a doctor.”

Melville grimaced. “Sorry we didn’t get more help out to you.”

“I understand we’re short on manpower.” Rafe winced as the lab man pulled the bandage tight.

Flynn poked his head in the door. “Blimey—you get hit by a train?”

RAFE PRESSED UP against the warehouse. Under cover of fog, he and Flynn were back in the warehouse district along with Alfred, the Yard’s trusty bloodhound. Getting to Henry Street had been tediously slow. During a black fog, emergency workers with large torches slowed every vehicle at main intersections throughout the city.

Flynn emerged from the brownish-yellow haze wielding a pair of bolt cutters. “A real pea souper this evening. Spot of luck, wot?” Rafe stepped back. Flynn snapped off the padlock. “You’re sure this is the storehouse?”

“More like a guess, really.” Rafe led the Yard dog through the door of the warehouse. “Alfred will let us know quick enough.” The floor was sticky, as if it had been newly tarred. Alfred sniffed and licked.

Flynn lowered onto his haunches and rubbed the sticky substance between fingers. “Sugar residue—leaks through the wine casks.”

Rafe toggled the switch on his torch. Nothing—as usual. He slapped the metal cylinder in the palm of his hand and a swath of light lit up the floor in front of them. Rafe peered into the vast surroundings of the warehouse. “We could use more light,” he said.

“Sorry. Broke mine over a dynamiter’s head a month ago.” Rafe had to imagine the grin on Flynn’s face. A
swath of low-lying dark mist crept under the cracks of the warehouse doors. The dense fog invaded everywhere. “I put a requisition in for another.”

“That will take a year.” Rafe passed a stack of tea chests a full story tall. The larger warehouses were partitioned off in sections. Rafe’s nose twitched from the pungent smell of tobacco mixed with tea leaves and rum—an intriguing brew.

Alfred strained on his leash. “Here we go—what’s up, old boy?” Rafe asked. The dog sniffed along the stone floor and arrived at a pile of horse droppings. Flynn stepped around the hound.

Rafe noted the wheel tracks and hoof prints. “So they brought the carriage into the midsection.” He swung his torch over to a wide set of doors. “Likely exited there as well.”

Gingerly, they both walked the approximate perimeter of the horse and carriage, looking for footprints, a trail of some kind—something, anything. Best they could make out were three sets of scuffs that led away from the carriage in different directions. One group of prints was their own. That left two others that went . . . nowhere. Rafe squinted at every mark on the ground while the Yard dog sat and watched.

Rafe turned his torchlight on the hound. “Anything, Alfred?” He swept the floor with a circle of light. Drool pooled in front of the dog. The beam passed over a small white dot.

“Hold on,” Flynn said, squatting beside Alfred. He
picked up the small white object and turned it over in his palm.

Rafe swung the light back. “What is that?”

“Looks like a button.”

Blood pounded through every part of his body. “Bring it closer.” Flynn wiped off the dog spittle and handed it over. Rafe could hardly contain himself. “This button is from Fanny’s dress.” She’d worn the damn dress for days. He knew every little posy on the thin muslin frock. And he’d rather not think why buttons were missing from her dress. He clenched his teeth and focused on finding his son and Fanny, bringing them safely home and never, ever letting them out of his sight again.

“This has to have her scent all over it.” Rafe held the button to Alfred’s nose and the hound snuffled around the tiny button.

The animal stood up and Rafe urged the dog onward. “That’s a good boy. Show us where Fanny and Harry are.” Alfred led them in a circuitous route through bales of tobacco. At the rear of the warehouse the canine stopped to sniff around a stack of tea chests six feet high and nearly as wide.

The hound sat down with a groan.

Rafe scanned the area with his torch. Sure enough, another round white button. This one had a small yellow flower on it. He swallowed.

“Give us a bit of light—this way.” Flynn motioned him over. Rafe turned the beam toward his partner. Fresh scratches on the floor suggested these crates of
tea had been moved recently. “I’ll hold the torch.” Rafe pointed to his sore ribs with a grin. “Lucky for you, tea chests are light.”

Flynn rearranged tea chests until he uncovered a metal door made of iron bars and steps leading downward. “One would suppose the stairs lead to the wine cellars belowground. Odd that the only access would be blocked.”

Rafe grunted. “Then again, maybe not.” He gritted his teeth and helped shove a few more chests aside, enough to lift the grate.

They descended into pitch-blackness. Pervasive wine fumes and the moldy smell of dry rot pervaded the deathly still air. Rafe ran his torch beam floor to ceiling over the narrow, cavernlike tunnel.

“Blimey.” Flynn whistled. “Let’s hope those batteries hold out.”

At a fork in the passageway, they searched the ground. The Yard dog growled and ran off after something. The lead slipped through Rafe’s grip and trailed after the animal. “Hold on, Alfred.” Rafe and Flynn followed as fast as they could with only a bobbing torch to light the way. The hound trotted back with a dead rodent in its mouth and dropped it at Rafe’s feet.

Rafe exhaled. “Perhaps we should rent you out to the rat-catchers? Might pay for your horsemeat, save the taxpayers.”

Alfred whined and cocked his head.

“Never thought he was fast enough to be a ratter,” Rafe mused aloud. Something was odd about this.

Flynn shook his head. “Perks up when he’s on the scent, though. Led us straight to the body in Canterbury at a blistering clip. Not that it was difficult. The torso was just as you called it. Lying neat as you please between the rails.”

Alfred used his large proboscis to nudge the dead rodent several times. Rafe sucked in a breath. “Rats pretty much eat anything—don’t they?”

“Dog’s bollocks.” Flynn stuck a thumb under his cap and scratched. “You think he could smell a button in a rat’s belly?”

Rafe unfolded his pocketknife. “There’s only one way to find out.”

HARRY INCHED OFF Fanny’s lap to explore the dingy cell they were locked in. Rumblings from the next room sounded like the professor had argued with his inquisitors. The minions wanted something from the inventor, perhaps the whereabouts of the submersible. And their curiosity bordered on maniacal with regards to her father’s entry in the exposition. She thought it likely that she and the professor were inadvertently thwarting some scheme of Mallory’s. No doubt the man wanted to make a big splash—some sort of grand and gruesome execution. Not that she could fathom what he had in mind, but she was intrigued by the idea that they might be able to interfere with his plans.

A jangle of keys and the whine of rusty hinges caused her to jump. “Come, Harry.” The boy returned to her
side as a string of unfamiliar men paraded into the room. One held a dress—something in deep shades of sapphire. And there was a steaming bowl of water with soaps and towels.

The last man, who carried himself like a butler, set down a bench and looking glass. He arranged the soaps and bowl, a comb and brush. After laying out towels, the man turned to her. He wore an eye patch. She nearly rolled her eyes. What a motley crew of well-dressed pirates these blokes were.

“I am Aubrey.” His bow was more of a brief nod. “Your presence is required at dinner. Mallory has provided you with these small comforts, as well as a change of gown.” The man’s one good eye traveled up and down her tattered frock. “Please refresh yourself. I will return within the hour to escort you to his suite.”

The door clunked shut and Fanny sprang into action. She stripped off the dingy white frock and removed every last remaining button. Harry stashed them all in various little boy pockets.

She washed up first and then gave Harry a good scrub and toweled him off. “When you see your father, I want you to remember to tell him something for me. Could you do that?” she asked.

Harry nodded, his eyes brightened. “Is Father coming for us?”

“I believe he is trying very hard to find us this very minute—but we must help him.” Fanny hesitated, not knowing exactly how much to reveal to the child. “Just
in case your father can’t find us right away, I am going to make a bargain this evening. If I am successful, you will be able to help your father—so he can locate the professor and me.”

She held him by his wee little shoulders. “Listen very carefully, Harry. What do you hear?” A muffled assortment of sounds filtered down through the low, arched ceiling.

Harry’s eyes rolled upward. “Noisy.”

Fanny smiled. “Harbor hubbub. Tell your father I can hear the sailors singing boisterous songs from a Yankee ship. And there is a cooperage nearby—lots of hammering and empty casks rolling along cobblestones. Will you remember, Harry?”

The boy pushed his arms into shirtsleeves and repeated back nearly every word to her. Fanny buttoned his shirt up the back, turned him around, and ran a comb through his bangs. “Very handsome—like your father.”

Rafe would find them. He must.

Until then, they would, all three, soldier on. Fanny left hook and eyes closed and lifted the new gown overhead. “Pull down hard, Harry.”

The child took hold of the skirt and tugged from the back, while she gripped the front and sucked in a breath. She refused to ask those horrid men to fasten the dress. Ugh! One last wriggle and she squeezed herself into the bodice of the gown.