My Favorite Thief (3 page)

“And whiskey.” Harrison closed his eyes. “Lots of it.”

“I'm afraid I don't keep spirits in the house,” Charlotte told him, apologetic. “If you like, Ruby will make you a nice cup of tea.”

He raised his lids to glare at her. He had a bullet in his shoulder and an excruciating headache that was making him feel cold and nauseated. Did this sanctimonious young girl really believe all he needed was a goddamn cup of tea? “Wine, then.”

“No wine, either, I'm afraid.” She seemed utterly unmoved by his glower. Clearly his mask was protecting her from its full impact.

“I've some nice, sweet cooking sherry in the larder,” Eunice offered, taking pity on him. “Ye can have that.”

The thought of ingesting some sickly-sweet cheap cooking swill made Harrison's stomach lurch. “No.” Then, realizing that the elderly woman was offering him something that she probably believed was precious, he added, “Thank you.”

“Tea it is, then, Ruby,” declared Doreen, who had set to work with Oliver trying to remove Harrison's gloves, blood-soaked coat, and shirt. “There's hot water in the kettle on the stove.”

“I don't want anything.” An overwhelming weariness was seeping through him, which combined with the crushing pain in his head made him want to retreat from the world. Sleep was what he needed. If he could sleep, the pain just might be gone when he wakened. He would worry about the bullet, and the police, and his disastrous visit to Lord Chadwick's house, in the morning.

“Ye'll be drinkin' it anyway,” she informed him briskly. “By the looks of yer clothes ye've lost enough blood to float a wee ship, an' ye need to have somethin' to drink to help ye make more. I'll nae have ye turnin' yer toes up on my sheets—'tis bad luck.”

“ 'Twas hard enough gettin' ye up the stairs while ye were alive, lad,” said Oliver, chuckling. “I'm nae of a mind to drag ye down again when ye're dead.”

“Ye could always tie a rope around him and toss him out the window,” suggested Annie helpfully. “That'd be quicker than bangin' him down the stairs.”

“He ain't goin' to snuff it, is he?” Flynn looked disappointed. “I want to hear about his fleecin'.”

“Nae from a wee scratch like this.” Having peeled the sodden layers of fabric off Harrison's torso and mopped away most of the blood, Doreen was finally able to survey the actual damage to his shoulder. “The ball bit through and come out the other side, nice and clean. Me and Eunice will stitch him up, and in a week or so he'll be fit an' fine.” She firmly pressed a wadded up cloth against the oozing wound.

“Why is he trembling like that?” asked Charlotte, concerned. “It's not cold in here.”

“He's probably got a chill from losin' so much blood,” Eunice speculated. “Annie, run and gather up every blanket ye can find—we'll pile them on him an' see if we canna get him warm again.”

“It's not the blood,” Harrison managed, his teeth chattering as Annie left to do Eunice's bidding. “It's the pain—in my head.”

“If ye've a pain in yer head, ye'd best let me take yer mask an' cap off so I can give ye my soothing saline-and-vinegar wash,” Eunice told him. “ 'Tis good for inflammation of the brain, an aching tooth, an' if ye drink a wee bit it rinses yer insides as clean as a—”

“Laudanum.” The word was barely a whisper.

Charlotte looked at Eunice uncertainly.

“He's used it before or he wouldna be askin' for it,” Eunice reflected. “His headaches must be a battle he's fought and lost afore.”

“Best ye give him some, Eunice,” said Oliver, frowning. “Must be a terrible pain to make a big lad like him shiver an' shake like that.”

“I'll just go an' fetch it.” Eunice picked up her skirts and bustled out the door.

“I'm goin' downstairs to clean up the mess we made as we came in from the rain,” Oliver decided. “Nae point in leavin' tracks for the police to wonder about when they come.”

“We've got everythin' you wanted,” declared Ruby, racing through the door.

“Is this enough rags?” Violet appeared behind her carrying an armful of shredded linen and a basin of water.

“It'll do.” Doreen wet a clean rag in the water and began to gently swab the Dark Shadow's shoulder.

“Here are some blankets!” Annie hurried into the room, her small frame all but hidden behind the mountain of cheap plaids and quilts she had stripped from the other beds.

“Right then, Annie, ye and Miss Charlotte lay them over him nice an' warm while I stitch up this shoulder of his,” directed Doreen.

Charlotte took one side of the first blanket Annie offered and laid it carefully over the Dark Shadow, covering him from the waist down. More covers followed, but with his chest and bleeding shoulder exposed, it was impossible to get him warm. After a few minutes Eunice returned with a small brown bottle, from which she carefully dispensed a series of drops into a glass of water.

“Easy now, lad, let's have ye up a wee bit while I pour this down yer throat,” she clucked, wrapping one soft, fleshy arm beneath his neck.

Harrison blindly opened his mouth, too overwhelmed with pain to care what the hell he was drinking. If these old Scottish ladies were trying to poison him, so much the better. At least in death there would be some escape from this excruciating torment. The moment the familiar taste of the laudanum hit his tongue, he nearly whimpered with relief. It would take time for the drug to work, but at least there was a reprieve somewhere in front of him, if only he could hang on. He drained the glass, then collapsed against the narrow little bed, wholly uninterested in the matter of his shoulder.

“It looks nasty at the moment,” Doreen told Harrison as she bandaged him, “but if ye keep it clean an' change the linens several times a day, it should close up fine. Ye can take the stitches out in a few days—dinna leave them too long, or they'll grow into yer flesh.” She knotted a final strip of linen around his arm, then nodded with satisfaction. “Now Ruby and me will fetch yer tea.”

“I'm goin' to take yer shirt and coat an' see if there's any hope of washin' this blood out and mendin' the tear,” added Eunice. “If not, dinna worry—we'll find ye somethin' else to wear when ye're leavin'.”

“Thank you.” Harrison's tongue felt thick in his mouth, making the words clumsy.

“Polite, ain't he?” observed Violet after Eunice and Doreen were gone. “Talks like a real swell, he does.”

“The Dark Shadow ain't no swell,” objected Flynn, clearly interpreting this as an insult. “He's one of us.”

“He may have started as one of us, but he talks too fine to be one of us anymore,” Annie argued.

“He's a thief, ain't he?” Violet looked to Charlotte to settle the matter. “Didn't Flynn say ye found him nickin' Lord Chadwick's jewels?”

“He was in the process of stealing when I came upon him.” Charlotte gently laid a blanket over the Dark Shadow's body. Now that the laudanum was starting to take effect, his shivering had subsided, but she was worried that he might still be cold. She tucked the blanket securely beneath the feather mattress, covering the hard, muscled contours of chest and belly. His black mask and cap remained in place, safely concealing his identity for the moment. His breathing had slowed and deepened and his eyes were closed, suggesting he had fallen asleep.

“Then that makes him one of us,” Violet decided.

“Whatever he is, I'm bettin' he's rare handsome beneath that mask,” said Ruby, entering the chamber carrying a tray of tea and oatcakes.

“How can ye tell?” wondered Violet.

“Look at his hands,” she instructed. “They're lovely clean—not all rough and stained, but they ain't sickly white and soft neither, the way some nobs' hands are. So he works with his hands, but then takes time to wash 'em, an' file his nails short. That's a prime man that does that.”

“I like a man who bathes,” Annie agreed. “An' scrubs his teeth now and again, too.”

“I know some girls won't let chaps kiss 'em if their mouths is all rotten an' stinkin',” said Ruby. “They say they're more like to get diseased from that than from puttin' their pricks between their—”

“Here now, that's enough blather!” interrupted Oliver sternly, appearing suddenly in the doorway. “That's nae way to speak when Flynn and Miss Charlotte is about.”

Flynn shrugged his shoulders. “I've heard worse.”

“It's all right, Oliver.” Charlotte was always touched by Oliver's gruff protectiveness. “Annie, Ruby, and Violet were just talking about the life they knew before coming here. They should feel comfortable talking about it. That's part of healing from the past and moving on from it.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Kent,” Ruby apologized, chastened. “Sometimes I forget to speak proper when ye're about.”

“A fine lady like you ain't supposed to know about such things,” Violet agreed. “It ain't right.”

Charlotte adjusted the blankets covering the Dark Shadow, who appeared to be sleeping, and said nothing. Years had passed since the ugly, violent part of her early life. Years in which Haydon and Genevieve had lovingly raised her and done their utmost to protect her. But the penchant for malevolent gossip in the aristocratic circles of Scotland and London had made it clear from the beginning that she would never be permitted to escape the sordidness of her beginnings. Even so, she said nothing to contradict Violet's assumption that she was a fine lady.

She made no secret of her past, she told herself, swallowing thickly.

She simply preferred not to discuss it.

A sudden banging on the front door interrupted her thoughts.

“That'll be the peelers, most like,” Oliver said, referring to the police. He regarded her soberly. “Ye'd best go downstairs, lass, and let them know ye're home safe. We'll tell them the Shadow jumped from the carriage at Waterloo Bridge, an' we just made for home as fast as we could.”

“What'll we do with him if they decide to search the house?” Ruby tilted her head at the dozing form of the Dark Shadow.

“I won't let them,” said Charlotte.

“Ye may have nae choice,” Oliver told her. “Ye listen from the stairs, lad,” he instructed Flynn, “an' tell the lasses if the bobbies are fixin' to search.”

“But how will we move him?” Violet cast a worried look at the Dark Shadow. “He looks bloody heavy.”

“We'll just heave him to the floor and shove him under the bedstead,” Annie decided. “If Ruby climbs onto the mattress and we toss some blankets over her, they'll never know he's there.”

“Dinna fret, lass,” Oliver said gently, sensing the fear that was starting to take hold of Charlotte. “He took ye hostage, remember? Ye've done nae wrong, an' the bobbies will be pleased to see ye're safe. After that, they'll be on their way.” He reached out and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

Charlotte managed a small smile.
Get hold of yourself,
she ordered silently.
You're safe
.

“We'll be back in a few minutes,” she told Flynn and the girls. Trying hard to affect a calm she didn't feel, she straightened her shoulders and moved awkwardly down the stairs to face the police.

Chapter Three

G
OOD EVENING, GENTLEMEN.
I
AM
M
ISS
C
HARLOTTE
Kent, and I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Charlotte smiled at the two men standing in the drawing room. The younger man was a police constable, who could not have been on the force overly long since he looked to be no more than nineteen or twenty. His rain-soaked, ill-fitting uniform caused alarm to flare within her, as it always did when she saw a policeman. Fighting the sensation, she limped past him with as much dignity as she could muster. She could feel his surprise as he observed her labored movement, and knew the exact moment when it turned to a kind of sickened pity.

She inhaled a steadying breath, reminding herself that he could not be blamed for his reaction to her. When she was a young girl Genevieve had suggested she try to ignore the stares of others, but that had proven impossible. Over the years she had grown accustomed to the embarrassed glances of the world, those startled expressions of horror, curiosity, and, at their most brutally honest, revulsion.

“Please, sit down.” She gestured to the faded chairs and sofa as she seated herself.

The second man nodded at the young police constable, giving him permission to be seated. Charlotte turned her attention to this gentleman, because he was obviously of greater authority than the policeman, and because he was not wearing a uniform and was therefore less intimidating to her. He appeared to be about thirty-seven or so, and she supposed his face was handsome enough, although at that moment it was far too sober to be considered pleasant. He was dressed in a plain brown coat of fairly good quality, dark trousers, and wet, worn shoes—suggesting that his means were adequate but by no means vast, and he was either in the habit of walking a great deal, or did not think it necessary to waste money on new footwear when there were still a few miles to be squeezed from his current pair.

“Miss Kent, permit me to introduce myself,” he began. “I am Inspector Turner of Scotland Yard, and this is Police Constable Wilkins. First let me say that I am greatly relieved to find you here—at this moment there are scores of policemen and concerned citizens searching the streets of London for both you and the Dark Shadow. I realize you have suffered a very difficult ordeal this evening, but I hope you won't mind answering a few questions?”

Charlotte shook her head. “I would be pleased to, Inspector Turner.”

“How did you manage to escape the Dark Shadow and make it back to your home?”

“It all happened rather quickly, actually,” she replied. “We drove off as fast as we could, because the Dark Shadow ordered Oliver—who is my coachman and butler—to drive away, and, fearing both for my life and his own, he obeyed. After we had been driving for a while, he suddenly said ‘Turn here!' and Oliver did, and then he—the Dark Shadow, that is—threw open the door and jumped out, and I told Oliver to just keep driving as fast as he could for home, and that is how we came here.”

“I see.” Lewis Turner nodded, as if he believed her tale was completely plausible. He always found it best when questioning people to first let them tell their story exactly as they wanted him to hear it. The time for pointing out the inconsistencies came later. “And where was it, exactly, that he jumped from the carriage?”

“I—I'm not sure. I think it was somewhere near Charing Cross. Or—no, actually, it was by Waterloo Bridge,” she corrected herself, suddenly remembering Oliver's instructions. “Yes, that's right. He jumped out by the bridge, and we just kept on.”

“And did you happen to see in which direction he was going, after he leapt out?”

“I'm afraid not, Inspector.”

He frowned. “You didn't make note of whether he was going north or south? Did he appear to go down to the river, or head for an alley?”

“I'm sorry—I was rather frightened at the time, and didn't think to look out of the carriage after him. I was just very relieved that he was gone, and that he hadn't harmed us.”

“Of course. Is there anything else you can tell us about what you noticed? Is it possible for you to give us a description of him?”

“Unfortunately, no. He was wearing a mask.”

“How tall would you judge him to be?”

“I'm not sure. We were seated in the carriage.”

“What about before you were in the carriage, when he was using you as a shield in Lord Chadwick's home? Surely you must have some impression of his height.”

“Well, he was certainly a good deal taller than me, Inspector. Beyond that I'm not sure how to describe—”

“Was he taller than me?” He rose from his chair, trying to give her some measurement for comparison. “Or was he more the height of Wilkins?” He gestured for the police constable to stand as well.

Charlotte studied the two men, feeling slightly flustered. She did not want to give them any more information than was absolutely necessary. “Unfortunately, it was quite dark, and for the greater part of my ordeal he was behind me—”

“I'm only asking for your impression, Miss Kent,” Lewis assured her. “Just tell me what you remember.”

“I believe he was closer to Constable Wilkins's height.”

“Was he close to his height, or taller?” he persisted.

Charlotte pretended to think a moment, knowing full well that the Dark Shadow was a good deal taller than the constable. “Close to his height—or perhaps a little taller. I'm sorry, Inspector, that I cannot be more precise.”

“Every piece of information is of great help in this investigation, Miss Kent,” he assured her. “What more can you tell me about him? Can you give me a description of his face?”

“No—he was wearing a mask.”

“Did you notice his eye color?”

“As I have said, it was very dark—”

“It was dark in the carriage, but what about when you were coming down the stairs with him in Lord Chadwick's home and making your way to the front door? Lord Chadwick keeps his home relatively well lit, does he not?”

“He—the Dark Shadow—was always behind me, Inspector. As you may recall, he was using me as a shield.”

“And there was no moment, throughout the entire duration of your being in his company, in which you had an opportunity to see his eyes?” The lines between his brows deepened a little, suggesting he found this rather unlikely.

“I'm not saying I didn't see them, Inspector. I'm saying it was too dark for me to take note of their color.”

“Did you happen to notice anything else about him? Did he have any distinguishing marks on his hands or wrists, or did he wear a ring of any kind?”

“I'm afraid I don't know—he was wearing gloves.”

“What kind of gloves?”

“Dark ones.”

“Were they leather? Wool? Cotton?”

“Leather, I believe.”

“Expensively made, or second-rate?”

“I'm really not sure.”

“What about his weapon? Can you describe it for me?”

“Actually, I'm afraid not. He kept it concealed in his coat the entire time.”

He regarded her skeptically. “Are you certain?”

“Yes—why does that surprise you?”

“Generally, most thieves don't make an effort to conceal their weapons once they are found out—unless they are trying to remain anonymous in a crowd, which clearly he was not. Further, a number of witnesses who saw him have said that they also saw his firearm, which they describe as a very large pistol with a light-colored handle. The only thing that varies in their statements is the actual size of the weapon, which ranges from approximately nine inches to a foot or more.”

“I'm afraid they are mistaken, Inspector. I was with him the entire time, and I can assure you that he kept his weapon hidden in his coat.”

“Even when he shot and killed Lord Haywood?”

She regarded him with dismay. “Lord Haywood died?” Although she had seen the poor man sprawled upon the staircase bleeding, she had desperately prayed that he had only been wounded.

“You did see the Dark Shadow shoot him before he forced you into the carriage, didn't you?”

“The Dark Shadow didn't shoot him,” she informed him. “Lord Haywood was shot by someone else.”

Lewis kept his expression contained. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I was there—I was right beside him. He never fired at Lord Haywood. He never fired at anyone.”

“Of course he did,” Constable Wilkins countered. “Everyone saw him do it.”

“They did not see him do it,” Charlotte retorted, “because he didn't do it.”

“Some fifty people have said that they saw the Dark Shadow point his pistol directly at Lord Haywood and shoot him dead,” Lewis argued. “Are you saying that all fifty of those witnesses are lying?”

“I am saying that they are mistaken.”

“All fifty of them?”

“It was dark, Inspector, and they were a good distance from him. I was right beside him, and I know without a doubt that he never withdrew his pistol from his coat.”

“According to my reports, at the time Lord Haywood was shot, you were actually behind the Dark Shadow—is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then I fail to see how you could know whether his firearm was drawn from his coat at that point or not.”

“I know,” Charlotte insisted.

“How?”

“Because it was still in his coat when he climbed into the carriage.”

“Perhaps he put it back into his coat after he fired the shot.”

“He didn't.”

“The witnesses have also said that the Shadow was struck by one of Lord Haywood's bullets—is that also incorrect?”

“No,” she admitted. “He was shot.”

“Where?”

“I'm not entirely sure—it was very dark—”

“Of course, you've mentioned that numerous times.” His tone remained pleasant, but he allowed her to see that he was finding some elements of her story rather dubious. “If he was able to leap from your carriage and run off into the night, it would be fair to say it was not a very serious injury, would you agree?”

“I suppose not.”

“Could you give me some idea as to where you think he might have been struck?”

“I believe he was struck either in the arm or in the shoulder. I'm not really sure which.”

“Left or right arm or shoulder?”

“I believe it was the left.”

“Was he bleeding badly?”

“I'm not sure.”

“And were you also injured?”

“No, I was not.”

“And so I take it, Miss Kent, that the blood on your gown is his?”

Charlotte glanced uneasily down at her gown. She had forgotten entirely about the bloodstains she had acquired while helping the Dark Shadow into her house. “Yes.” Her mouth suddenly felt dry. “That is his blood.”

“If you don't mind my asking, Miss Kent, how is it that you got so much of his blood upon you?”

“I suppose it happened as he was holding me—or maybe in the carriage—he must have been thrown against me at some point as we raced away.”

He regarded her thoughtfully a moment, evaluating everything she had told him. “With your permission, Miss Kent, Constable Wilkins and I would like to make an inspection of your carriage, to see if there is any more blood there, or any other evidence which might help us to solve the mystery of the Shadow's identity.”

“Of course. Oliver will be pleased to show it to you.”

“And so after the Shadow leapt from your carriage, your coachman drove you home,” he continued, picking up the thread of her story. “Approximately what time was it when you arrived?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, then, how long would you estimate you have been home?”

“I'm not sure—an hour, perhaps.”

“And how far a distance would you say it is from your home to Waterloo Bridge?”

“I don't know—I suppose it is approximately a fifteen- or twenty-minute drive.”

“It is a fifteen- or twenty-minute drive if one is traveling in no great hurry, but you have indicated that you told your coachman to drive as fast as he could. How long do you recall it taking before you arrived home?”

“I really don't recall, Inspector Turner,” she told him, feeling slightly agitated. “As you can imagine, I was greatly distressed by what I had just been through. Are you almost finished with your questions?”

“I apologize for having to take you through what certainly must have been a terrible ordeal for you, Miss Kent. Now that the Dark Shadow has killed Lord Haywood, the pressure for the police to find this criminal and see him tried for murder will be enormous. Any piece of information, however slight or insignificant it may seem to you, can only help us to solve this case.”

“I'm afraid I cannot think of anything else.”