Stolen (2 page)

“Y
OU KNOW
, M
RS
. G
RAHAM.
I really don't think this is such a good idea. Didn't think so to begin with, and I like it even less now.”

Detective Chief Inspector Maurice Paddington of the Blackpool Police Department raked a scarred knuckle across the thick shelf of his jaw and shook his shaggy head. His trench coat was rumpled and he held his unlit pipe in his hand. In his fifties and overweight, Paddington nevertheless remained a bulldog when it came to law enforcement.

At the moment, he stood solidly behind one of the police sawhorses blocking entrance to the theater. He was as much a bulwark as the sawhorse and the police officers around him.

Occasionally the Blackpool Police Department pulled in smugglers and drug runners who tried to do business in town, and sometimes they arrested thieves and vandals, but the town didn't have much in the way of criminal activity. Now, anyway—as a former pirate den, it had a history of outlaws. But Paddington kept the current peace with a heavy hand and simple, inflexible rules.

The police department only had a small contingent of officers, but more had been drafted to help manage security for the filming of the documentary Molly was going to announce tonight.

Molly stood waiting for one of the police officers to
remove the sawhorse blocking her path. “It's a little late to stop this now, don't you think?”

Paddington squinted at her, harrumphed and turned away. He waved at one of the young officers standing nearby. “Let Mr. and Mrs. Graham pass, Constable Bedford.”

The young policeman eased the sawhorse away, allowed Molly and Michael through, then pushed the barrier back into place to control the rest of the crowd.

 

T
WENTY-SEVEN MINUTES LATER
, Molly stood to one side of the Magic Lantern's large screen. For the moment the houselights glowed dimly and served only to stir the darkness inside the large room. Townsfolk filled every seat.

“You appear to have quite the turnout, Mrs. Graham.”

Barely managing to quash an involuntary start, Molly turned toward the smooth, oily voice.

Aleister Crowe stood there in elegant evening wear. In his early thirties and with his dark hair worn brushed back to reveal a widow's peak, he looked as predatory as his namesake. Light reflected from the silver crow's head topping the walking stick he carried purely for looks, though rumor held that it was a sword cane passed down through generations of Crowes.

“I do hope you can deliver on all the furor you promised.” Crowe's voice was controlled and deep, an orator's voice. “Even if you do, though, I doubt the detective chief inspector will be very pleased with you. You're threatening the orderliness he works so hard to maintain in Blackpool.”

Breathing out slowly, Molly chose to be calm and collected. Something about Crowe and his family always left her feeling on edge. Aleister had come into his own after his father had mysteriously died at sea a dozen years ago.
“On the contrary, Mr. Crowe, I believe Inspector Paddington will be happy after tonight's announcement. His department is going to get a good deal of publicity during the filming of the documentary.”

Shifting his attention, Crowe gazed at the seated crowd and those standing at the back of the theater.

“For such a small town, Blackpool seems to attract huge secrets. It would be a shame if you tripped across something that had been buried for a long time while seeking to film your little movie.” He shrugged. “You might want to consider that before you start kicking a hornet's nest.”

“Is that a warning, Mr. Crowe?”

He smiled, and a neutral expression slipped across his face like a well-used mask. “Not at all. Just an objective observation.”

“As I understand it, the Crowe family has no shortage of buried secrets.” They'd lived in Blackpool since the first pirates and smugglers had lit campfires on the seashores. “Is this documentary going to touch on one?”

“Touché, my dear.” Crowe drained his wineglass and placed it on the tray of a passing server. He shrugged and glanced around the room. “I suppose I should mingle and leave you to your event.”

“I hope you enjoy the evening.”

Crowe nodded, then turned and walked away, disappearing almost instantly in the darkness of the theater.

Creepy.
Molly shook her head and promised herself that she wouldn't tell Michael about the encounter. He thought Crowe was obnoxious, but not scary. Threatening, maybe, but not supernatural. Molly wasn't so certain. There was something menacing about Aleister Crowe—about all of the Crowes, actually—and Molly couldn't quite shake it off. Maybe it was just the eeriness of Blackpool itself. The stories continued to cycle about infamous resident Emma
Ravenhearst and the ghost that was said to haunt the ruins of where the old Ravenhearst mansion had stood just outside town.

At precisely seven o'clock, Molly walked out onto center stage. The baby spotlight switched on with a loud
snap
and bathed her in blue-white incandescence. She kept from blinking through an effort of will and avoided looking into the light. She couldn't see the audience, but she heard a hush falling over the crowd, receding from the stage like an outgoing tide.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and children.” Molly spoke naturally and the wireless mic pinned to her top carried her voice to the back of the theater. “I want to thank you all for coming.” She smiled.

Michael sat in the front row beside Fred Purnell. The chair to Michael's left was empty, as were a couple of others. Simon Wineguard, the documentary's director, wasn't seated where he was supposed to be and that bothered Molly. They'd agreed about the timing and the seating.

“We're here to honor seven survivors of the Blackpool train robbery that occurred in 1940. We'll have those people on stage shortly. But as you've probably heard around town, that isn't the only reason for this event. To explain, please join me in welcoming Simon Wineguard, the famed director and historian.” Molly glanced at the empty seat in the front row. “Simon, are you out there?”

“Over here, Molly.”

The voice came from Molly's left. A moment later, the director trotted across the stage to stand beside her. In his forties, Wineguard was tall and a little overweight. His suit hung well on him, working with the rimless glasses to give him a professional appearance. He was bald on top, his shiny pate fringed by short salt-and-pepper hair.

He hugged Molly briefly.

“Sorry, my dear. I lost track of time and ended up not being where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there.” Despite his outward calm, Wineguard seemed a little flustered. Maybe he was nervous about all the attention. He was used to being behind a camera.

“I knew I should have given you a map.”

“And maybe a keeper,” called out a feminine voice from the front row.

Wineguard gave the crowd a mock grimace and offered a wave to the front row. “That would be Joyce Abernathy, my personal assistant.”

A petite woman in her middle years stood and waved to the audience. Short gray hair accentuated her broad features. Over the last few weeks, Molly had gotten to know Joyce well and thought she was a fantastic little dynamo to work with.

“If his mother were here, Simon would have been in his seat.”

The crowd roared with laughter.

“Yes, well, thank you for that, Joyce.” Wineguard shook his head and looked insufferably put upon as Joyce sat back down.

Molly loved that Wineguard and Joyce worked so well together. It made selling this project much easier to do.

“Many of you have probably heard of Simon,” Molly said to return the focus to where it should be—the announcement of the documentary. “He's directed several history specials that have aired on the BBC, Discovery Channel and the History Channel. His films have been translated into more than thirty languages.”

“Thankfully, I didn't have to learn all of them.”

The crowd laughed again, but this time there were a
few jeers, as well. If the director heard them, he gave no indication.

“Some of Simon Wineguard's more well-known pieces include
Blackout Nights,
a history of London during World War II.
Spies Among England's Gentry,
concerning wealthy British families torn apart by that war. And
Constables Chasing Swastikas,
a documentary of London's Metropolitan Police Department pursuing black-market dealers during wartime.”

As she spoke, footage trailed across the screen behind her.

“Mr. Wineguard has come to Blackpool, to
you,
to follow up on another story.” Molly let her words hang and the interest build. “When the Second World War began, the government decided to move women and children outside of the metropolitan areas to protect them. London and the other major cities were prime targets for German bombs.”

Silence hung over the crowd. Although the war was seventy years ago, public interest and memory had not diminished. Several London neighborhoods still bore scars of the bombing. No one had forgotten.

“That decision led to Operation Pied Piper.”

The footage on the screen changed, showing black-and-white reels of actual evacuations of the English cities. Tearful women and children were herded onto waiting trains like cattle.

Simon Wineguard stepped forward slightly. “I can't imagine what it was like to be loaded onto a train and not know if I'd ever see my dad again. To watch bombs being dropped into your city, perhaps right outside your window, and then you're shipped away from your dad. Maybe your mum, too.”

The audience watched the black-and-white reels in rapt silence.

“Pied Piper has always fascinated me but I didn't think I could do anything new with the subject.” Wineguard shoved his hands into his slacks pockets and walked away from Molly. The baby spotlight followed him and left her in the darkness. The move had been planned and everyone looked at him. “However, I found an interesting story while pursuing research on this special little hobby of mine.”

Molly sensed the anticipation building among the crowd. Fred Purnell leaned forward in his seat with his digital recorder outstretched. His teen photographer flashed away and bright light illuminated the stage again and again.

“Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Blackpool had served as a final destination for some of those displaced families.” Sheer excitement widened Wineguard's smile. “And in 1940, some of those evacuees were on a train when it was derailed just outside of Blackpool. Not only that, but some of the children aboard that train remained in Blackpool and made this lovely town their home. Seven of those children live in Blackpool to this day.”

A montage of seven faces, four male and three female, replaced the previous images of evacuees. There were pictures of the survivors as children as well as adults.

“These people will be joining us in just a few moments.” Wineguard waved to the photographs on the screen. “We're going to honor them, watch
Peter Pan 2,
then attend a small buffet.”

A spattering of clapping started and briefly gained momentum. Wineguard raised his hands to quiet it. Molly relaxed a little. Perhaps there wouldn't be as much resistance to the intrusion and publicity as she'd feared. Blackpool and its citizens were hard to judge.

“But before we do that, I want to take just a couple
more minutes to tell you what I'm going to be doing here. What
we're
going to be doing over the next few weeks.” Wineguard paused. “Thanks to Molly Graham's brilliant grant application and vision, I've received funding to do a documentary based on Blackpool's connection to Operation Pied Piper. In fact, I think I've got quite the hook for our little enterprise.”

Well played. Moving it from
my
to
our. Molly watched the man with increasing admiration. She'd been impressed by the director when she'd first met him, but that appreciation grew tremendously tonight.

Wineguard's voice lowered as if he was taking the whole audience into his confidence. “As you all know, the derailment of 1940 wasn't an accident. It was a robbery.” He let the audience hang on to his words for just a moment. “The train carried several women and children evacuating from London, including an heir to the Sterling family fortune. Sadly, little Chloe Sterling perished when the bandits blew the train off its tracks.”

The image behind Wineguard switched to the scene of a train wreck. An overturned locomotive lay across the tracks in front of a shamble of broken cars. Groups of people clustered around trees and boulders with dazed, shocked expressions. Others lay on the ground under blankets.

Several women in the audience shook their heads. A few crossed themselves.

“Who would do such a thing? I'm sure you've all asked that question at one time or another.” Wineguard spread his hands wide. “Sadly, the military police never found the malefactors behind this tragic deed.”

“What monster would wreck that train with all those kids on it? And why?” The question came from somewhere in the back of the room.

Wineguard looked out into the crowd as if he could see
the man who'd spoken. “Exactly my question. That train also carried a fortune in art, jewelry and pottery. All from collections of wealthy families who were afraid to leave such treasures behind in London. More than that, there was a shipment of gold bullion on board marked for the war effort.”

More whispers circulated the theater.

“The bandits obviously robbed the train for its valuable cargo.” Wineguard shrugged. “They didn't care how much death and suffering they caused.”

He scanned the audience. “Very few of those stolen goods have ever shown up. And the gold bullion never did.” He walked to the edge of the stage. “Some say that treasure—perhaps even the paintings—was sorted out, sold to private collectors who will never show their ill-gotten gain to anyone.” He paused, holding everyone's attention. “But…some say that treasure has never left Blackpool.”