Comfort and Joy (33 page)

With the ladies away, the time had come for Maeve to put her plan into action. She intended to leave Charles with something he would always remember her by — St. Nick by Barnabas.

Her plan began with following Bill “Spit” O’Brien until he led her to his home or to whoever his thieving boss might be. He might work alone, or he might be working under the direction of another nefarious character. There was much she didn’t know and little time to find answers. Once Maeve discovered where the boxer lived, she would contrive to “visit” while O’Brien was away from home. With any luck, she would then find the precious sketch of St. Nick and return it to its rightful owner.

If, however, the brute led her to a mastermind who directed his villainy, Maeve would report the scoundrel to the authorities, who would take him prisoner and restore the sketch to Charles. It all seemed quite simple.

Fancying that a woman could be as keen a private investigator as the fellow Charles had hired, Maeve set out on foot. A mottled gray sky, holding promise of more snow, greeted her. Thin, crusty layers of soot settled over melting snowdrifts. Stepping around mounds of slush, she walked briskly to ward off the biting cold that wrapped about the city like an icy muffler.

Less than an hour later, Maeve marched into the A Street Gymnasium. On the pretext of searching for her brother, she looked for Bill “Spit” O’Brien. She’d tracked Shea down so often, the regulars were used to seeing Maeve in the boxing hall and paid no mind to her presence. But neither her brother nor the suspect boxer were at the hall.

Refusing to give up, Maeve decided to bide her time. Leaving the gymnasium, she hurried to the flat in hopes of finding her father. But no one was home. Exasperated, Maeve’s tension mounted. Her insides felt fluttery one moment and tighter than a fiddle string the next. In a vain effort to calm herself, Maeve stopped at Mrs. Gilhooly’s for a spot of tea before returning to the boxing hall. The withered old widow confided in Maeve that she’d taken a shine to Mick O’Malley. Not knowing whether she should laugh or cry, Maeve returned to the boxing hall.

It was late in the afternoon when she took a seat in a corner of the A Street Gymnasium. Pretending impatience while waiting for her brother, she studied the sparring boxers in each ring. New fighters had arrived during her absence and it did not take long to spot O’Brien, the man Shea had pointed out to her.

The Irishman boxed in the middle ring with a young fighter who was not quite as tall or beefy. O’Brien’s alarming countenance caused Maeve to reconsider her plan for a moment. Should “Spit” suspect her interest in him and waylay her as he had Charles, she could find herself in a world of trouble. Maeve considered alternative plans as she watched.

Bill “Spit” O’Brien did not do well in the sparring match. After boxing thirty minutes or so, his young opponent landed a blow that knocked O’Brien to the canvas. Maeve winced and covered her eyes. After being splashed with a bucket of water, the big, lumbering man dragged himself up and staggered about the ring for another thirty minutes before the young fighter called an end to the practice match.

A sweating O’Brien shrugged into his sweater and jacket, withdrew a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket, and stuffed it back inside. Drawing a knit cap over his addled head, he ambled out of the gymnasium.

Maeve followed.

He headed back to Boston on foot. Maeve thought it highly unlikely the giant boxer lived in the city, nor was it probable he had friends there. For all she knew he could be up to no good, like picking pockets or some other notorious activity. She followed at what seemed a safe distance.

O’Brien did not appear to be in any hurry as Maeve trailed him down narrow streets. The gray light of day deepened to a purple haze. She jumped and stopped in her tracks when from the corner of her eye she caught the flash of a dark shadow across a dirty snowdrift. The downy hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end. She took several deep breaths before pressing on. Humming softly.

In the past, Maeve had always avoided being out alone after dark, but on this day she had little choice. Maeve offered up a silent request to the wee people who granted wishes. She did not care to be on a wild goose chase. Please, let O’Brien be the one who was even now leading her to the stolen sketch of St. Nick.

With her gaze glued to the fighter and her fearful heart thudding against her chest, Maeve was not aware of the man keeping to the shadows, following her every move.

O’Brien turned on Warren Street. Maeve’s heart began to beat a bit faster. The chill that swept through her had more to do with fright than the weather. She had never been particularly courageous.

Although she’d never had reason to be on the street, Maeve knew it boasted many exclusive shoppes. Perhaps Bill O’Brien had come to rob one! Only a handful of shoppers bustled along the street against the cold. There was not a coach in sight. If need be, who would she call upon for help?

The big boxer stopped.

Maeve ducked into the small portico of a fabric shoppe and peered around the edge of the building. Her quarry had paused, looking both ways down the street. To determine if he’d been followed? If that wasn’t the sign of a guilty man, she didn’t know what was. Afraid to be seen, she ducked back and counted to ten. When she next dared peek, O’Brien had disappeared.

Her pulse raced at an alarming speed. Tension gnawed at the pit of her stomach. She could taste the bitter bile of her fear. Saints above! She must be out of her mind.

Calming and collecting herself, Maeve headed to the spot where she’d last seen O’Brien. She walked slowly, spine stiff, head high, fearing she might lose Mrs. Gilhooly’s tea and cakes at any minute.

Maeve stopped at the shoppe approximate to where she had last seen the Irish fighter. And sucked in her breath. The lettering painted on the glass door read:

EDGAR DINES ART GALLERY.

How odd.

She stepped up to the glass door and peered inside. The gallery was dark. She was afraid of the dark. Only one low-burning lantern shed any light. Her belly constricted into a tight little burning ball. It felt as if her legs were bound in lead gaiters. She couldn’t go into the darkened gallery. Her feet refused to move.

Maeve knew she had come too far to go back now. She was too close to recovering the sketch. Spit O’Brien’s presence at Mr. Dines’s gallery meant only one thing. For whatever reason, Edgar Dines had sold Charles the sketch of St. Nick and then had the fighter steal it back. O’Brien obviously worked for the art dealer. Why else would the muddle-headed boxer come to a business like this? Maeve felt safe in assuming the big man was no art connoisseur.

Another thought occurred to her. If she had guessed their scheme, perhaps Edgar Dines hoped to sell the sketch again to someone else. Or already had!

The fear she might be too late to recover the sketch of St. Nick temporarily overpowered her fear of the dark. Maeve opened the door and hurried inside the gallery. The jangle of the doorbell gave her a start that resulted in a squeak, a sound she’d never made before. Her throat felt as dry as her daddy’s empty flask. With wobbling knees, she closed the door behind her.

“Hello!”

No one returned her greeting.

“Merry Christmas,” she called out cheerily.

A rather high-pitched man’s voice came from the back, beyond a black velvet curtain. “Patience. I will be with you momentarily.”

Maeve waited. She tapped her toe and entertained truly alarming thoughts and grave doubts. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come by herself. Perhaps she should have asked Shea to accompany her or told Charles what she’d learned about O’Brien. One dire thought led to another as she shivered in the gallery, barely aware of the art

Would Charles mourn her if she died here? Would he miss her at all? Would he know why she’d come? Would he understand how deeply she loved him?

She hummed.

At last a small man wearing round spectacles and an annoyed frown scurried from the back room. He seemed unduly disturbed to have a customer.

“How may I help you, Miss?”

Maeve’s lips quivered as she forced a smile. “I’m looking for a special gift.”

“I do not mean to be rude but it’s late and I was just about to close the gallery. Come back tomorrow.”

“But I should like to purchase a painting or sketch of St. Nick.”

The man frowned, peering at her over his round spectacles. ‘‘Look around you. Do you see such a thing?’’

“No, but it is Christmas and I thought you might have one. Perhaps in the back?”

“No,” he replied with a fierce scowl. “I do not.”

Maeve played the little witless woman. “I am certain I once saw a sketch of Santa Claus in your gallery.”

With his shrewd eyes narrowed on her, Edgar Dines stroked his mustache. “You haven’t been in my gallery before.”

“Oh, but I have.”

“Who are you?”

“Maeve O’Malley.”

At that moment, Bill “Spit” O’Brien pulled aside the curtain separating the gallery from what appeared to be a back room. “Ain’t ye Shea O’Malley’s sister?” he asked.

“Yes, I am.” Maeve’s pulse raced erratically. Her stomach spun ‘round like a carousel.

Spit grunted. “I seen you at the hall.”

She forced a bright, warm smile. “And I’ve seen you.”

O’Brien kept his squinty eyes on her as he ambled to Edgar Dines’s side. “She’s the interferin’ lass who pulled Rycroft from the alley.”

Maeve whirled on her heel and marched toward the door. “I’ll come back another day.”

But the big boxer beat her to it.

Edgar Dines locked the door.

She hadn’t counted on this.

“Take her into the back room and tie her up,” Dines snapped at O’Brien.

O’Brien spit toward a corner brass spittoon and grabbed her arm.

“Why would you want to tie me up?” Maeve asked in a trembling voice. “I’ll just come back another day.”

“You think I have Rycroft’s sketch, don’t you?” Dines demanded.

She blinked. “What sketch?”

The skinny, bespectacled leprechaun stepped up to her until he was within inches of her face. “Did Rycroft send you?”

His sour breath smelled of onion. “No. No, he doesn’t know I’m here.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Maeve knew she’d said the wrong thing.

“Take her to the back.”

Maeve dug in her heels but O’Brien put his big hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming and easily yanked her back through the black curtain.

She found herself in a small, cold room. The fire in the wood-burning stove was close to dying. And maybe she was as well. A deep, hard shudder rocked her body as the fighter tied her to a straight-backed chair.

“Please let me go. I won’t say a thing. And you know,” she lowered her voice to an ominous pitch. “If I am harmed in any way my brother will certainly kill you.”

Apparently O’Brien did not fear Shea. He simply grunted as he tied a red wool scarf around her head and tightly against Maeve’s mouth. She gagged. Standing back to check his work, O’Brien gave an abrupt nod and strode out of the room.

Maeve looked around her. The fire would soon go out and only drops remained in the kerosene lantern. Soon she would be alone in pitch blackness, the prisoner of two ruthless men.

Chapter Nineteen

Charles took the stairs two by two. He could swim the Atlantic, sail round the world single-handedly, run to Stockbridge and back. Filled to overflowing with a sense of liberation, Charles burst into Maeve’s rooms without bothering to knock. Alone at last with his Irish bride! Alive with anticipation, his heart fairly sang.

“Maeve?” She was not in the sitting room. “Maeve?”

Nor did he find her in the bedroom.

His exuberance burst like a bubble pricked by a pin.

He ran downstairs. “Dolly, where’s Maeve?”

The ruddy-faced housekeeper offered a hapless twist of her lips and shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t say, Mr. Rycroft. She left the house shortly after your mother and Miss Hampton departed this morning.”

Charles glanced at his pocket watch and then to the window. It would soon be dark. The lamplighters were already at work. Maeve did not stay out after dark. He knew she would be home soon.

“I’ll be in my study,” he told Dolly.

Disappointed and somewhat disgruntled, Charles poured a brandy, lit a cigar, and settled in his favorite wing-back chair to read a long-neglected manuscript. He’d been spending more time with Maeve and very little time attending to business.

Although he could not have imagined feeling fortunate to have Martin heavily involved in the publishing company, he did. While they didn’t always agree, they had reached a meeting of minds and forged a foundation that promised success.

It seemed eerily quiet in the house with all of the women gone. Charles found the silence discomfiting. Yet he had enjoyed the very same solitude, or thought he had, until Maeve came into his life. The little bit of Irish heaven had been followed quickly by the arrival of his mother, Stella Hampton, and her snarly pet. His big brownstone had suddenly seemed smaller and indisputably noisier. But this was no time for reflection, he had a manuscript to read.

Some thirty minutes later, sorely pressed to concentrate on his work, the sound of the door knocker brought Charles to his feet. Maeve!

But why would she be knocking?

He sat down again.

Less than a minute later came a soft rap on his study door.

“Yes?”

Charles’s butler opened the door. “There is a Mr. Lynch to see you, sir. Do you wish to speak with him?”

Charles tossed the manuscript aside. “By all means.”

Other than Maeve coming home, the only news that could possibly give him any solace would be word of his stolen sketch.

“Mr. Rycroft.”

He rose to greet the intense, ever-frowning private investigator. “Mr. Lynch, have you news?”

“Yes, indeed. Yes, indeed. I’ve been working long and hard on this case.” He paused to scratch his rather billowy, untrimmed side whiskers. “My original suspicions have been recently confirmed. Confirmed.”

“How is that?”