The Counterfeit Lady (4 page)

“I inherited the bookshop from my parents. It’s all I have left of them, and it’s the only thing that keeps me from living on the street. I’ve worked hard to keep it going. Sir Broderick and Frances know bookselling, but they don’t know my shop and my customers like I do. They don’t care like I do.” I could feel my insides twisting in anxiety.

Phyllida’s answer was to give me a hug.

“It’s kept me from returning to a life of crime in the East End. That thought should increase Sir Broderick’s commitment,” Emma said with a grin.

Emma had been a cherub-faced child who gained access to wealthy houses through upper windows for an East End burglary ring. When the group struck a house during a murder, the entire group, including Emma, was arrested for the killing and thrown in jail. The Archivist Society identified the true killer at the request of the victim’s son. Sir Broderick then used up a great number of favors to convince the judge to have Emma placed in my custody. Emma’s sass gave Phyllida a reason to smile, and the two had formed an unshakable bond.

Emma joined in the hug. “It’ll turn out all right, Georgia.”

Perhaps it was a never-ending, three-way bond. With the two of them beside me, I felt my confidence returning.

“Later this afternoon, Miss Fenchurch, you need to go to Madame Leclerc for your fitting. When you return, Miss Keyes can visit her.” Blackford’s voice punctured my fragile calm.

“I’m getting new clothes, too?” The duke had Emma’s full attention.

“Smart but out of date. A lady’s maid gets her mistress’s castoffs,” Blackford said.

“How do you know about ladies and their maids?” I asked, my eyes narrowing. I thought the duke only knew about ducal things and investing.

“Knowledge imparted to me at a very young age by my mother.” Despite his formal tone, his eyes laughed at me. He must have guessed his words sparked jealousy.

Between the rent on the furnished house we’d use and the money for our outfits, this was costing Blackford more money than I saw in a year. “You’re going to great expense for this investigation, Your Grace. Why?”

“The safety of our nation is at stake.”

“Stuff and nonsense. I repeat. Why?”

“If the Germans obtain this ship design, it will alter the balance of world power. That in turn will affect my pocketbook. That’s the answer you’re looking for, isn’t it, Miss Fenchurch? As true as it is, I am also a patriot. My great-grandfather received that coach from Wellington for valuable and heroic service. I have the family honor to maintain and a country to protect. It is my duty.” His dark eyes shot fire at me. His always-straight posture became as rigid as his jaw.

For once, I believed him.

“I’ve arranged for you to meet Ken Gattenger, Georgia. Shall we go?”

I nodded and set aside the books I’d been shelving. “Emma, you’ll be fine on your own? Phyllida, do you have any message you want me to take to him?”

Emma shrugged her answer as she looked around our empty shop.

Phyllida considered for a moment. “Tell him I know he couldn’t have killed Clara. Tell him I believe his story about the burglar. And tell him everything will be all right, since you are helping him.”

*   *   *

NEWGATE PRISON, NOW
used for prisoners awaiting trial or execution, sat next to the Central Criminal Court, or the Old Bailey, as everyone in London called it. The building was a stone fortress with nothing to recommend it but its forbidding, unbreakable nature. The facade had absorbed decades of smog and now appeared as grim as its reputation.

I climbed out of the duke’s carriage and followed him through the first of many gates manned by many guards. We trailed our guide down corridors still cool with stale air left from the previous winter. A faint odor of mildew and rot seemed to come out of the stones themselves, along with eerie echoes of disembodied voices and metallic clanks.

Finally we arrived in a small room with stone floors and walls. Iron bars made up the fourth wall and covered the window high in the opposite wall. Inside was a wooden table and two chairs. A third was brought in by our guide while another guard stood by silently. An oil lantern gave off a kerosene smell along with adequate light.

Kenneth Gattenger sat slumped in the chair on the opposite side of the table, fair stubble on his cheeks matching the blond hair that fell lankly over his brow. He’d always looked boyishly handsome when I saw him with Clara. Now, instead of slender, he was thin. His most prominent feature was his red, swollen eyes.

He began to rise when I entered the room, but a barked command from the tall, burly guard standing like a pillar to one side made him drop back into his seat like a deadweight.

I glared at the guard, but he stared straight ahead, saving him from viewing my wrathful stare. Changing to a pleasant expression, I turned to Gattenger and sat down across the scarred table from him. “Lady Phyllida Monthalf sends her greetings and her assurances that as an innocent man, you can be certain everything will turn out for the best.”

He turned the saddest blue eyes that I have ever seen toward me and said, “How can it be all right? Clara is dead.”

The Duke of Blackford sat down next to me and said, “Tell us what happened that night.”

“I’ve told my story over and over, and no one believes me. What good will it do?” He buried his head in his arms on the tabletop and sobbed.

The duke shared an annoyed expression with me and then glared at the top of Gattenger’s head. “Pull yourself together, man. We’re trying to help you. We don’t believe you killed your wife.”

“It doesn’t matter. Clara’s still dead,” he mumbled from beneath his arms, but at least the sobbing seemed to have stopped.

I smacked my hand on the table. “It matters to your wife that we find the man responsible and have him face justice. What do you think she’d say if she saw you like this?”

Gattenger sat up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “You’re right. Clara deserves to have her killer punished. But I don’t know who the man is.”

I spoke quietly, not wanting to upset him again. “Just tell us what you do know of that night.”

“We went into the study as we always did after dinner. Someone, a man, was hiding behind the door. Once we stepped into the room, he shut and locked the door. He had the drawings to my newest ship design in his hand.”

He stared at his fisted hands. “I told him to give me the drawings. Clara asked him how he got in, why he was there. He said nothing; he just moved cautiously across the room toward the windows. Furious at his silence, I raised my voice. To my surprise, Clara did the same. The man just kept facing us as he edged his way toward the window. He never said a word. I decided to be a hero. What a fool I was.” With a moan, he shoved his fists into his eyes.

“And then?” If he’d keep talking, we might learn something.

“And then? I tried to stop him. I struck out at him. I grabbed hold of the blueprints in his hands. I tore one sheet. He gasped as if in fright and swung at me. I ducked and swung back. Clara shouted at both of us to stop, and then I shouted at him. His answer was to punch me in the side of the head.” He shrugged. “I don’t remember any more. The next thing I knew, I was leaning over Clara’s body, begging her not to be dead, but I knew she was.”

“Were you standing? Sitting?” the duke asked.

“Lying on the floor next to her, half sitting, holding her. Her head was bloody and her eyes stared at me. Accusing me. I failed her.”

A clank reverberated along the stone-lined hallways, making us all jump. “And then?” I pressed.

“I pulled myself to my feet, went to the door, and unlocked it. I told the maids to get a doctor and the police, but I knew it was too late.”

“Did you see the burglar or the drawings when you came around?”

“No. I thought he’d taken them until the police found part of one in the fire. I guess he burned them.”

“Why would he burn them?” the duke asked. Actually, he demanded to be told, but Gattenger didn’t appear to notice Blackford’s overbearing tone of voice.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You must be able to think of a reason. Those drawings are valuable, but they’re not the only copy.” The duke leaned across the table. “Why would anyone destroy them?”

Gattenger slammed his fists on the table. “I. Don’t. Know.” He rose halfway from his seat, glanced at the guard, and sat back down. “I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t know why someone broke into my house, killed my wife, and burned my drawings.”

“What did the man look like?” I asked.

He stared at the table and spoke in a monotone. It was as if all the air, all the life, had left him. “Thin, in his twenties, a little shorter than me.”

“Did he have any scars? Did he have a receding hairline? Did he limp when he walked toward the window?”

“No limp. No scars. I didn’t see his hairline. He wore a cap.”

“What kind of cap?”

“Just a regular workingman’s cap.”

I glanced at Blackford. He nodded slightly and I continued. “What color was his shirt?”

“Faded. Brown or gray or something.”

“Did he wear a collar?”

“With that shirt? No.”

“His trousers?”

“The same. Faded. He looked and dressed like a workman.”

I pulled a sheet of notepaper and a pencil from my bag and passed them over to Gattenger. From the corner of my eye, I was aware the guard moved. He didn’t demand the paper and pencil, so I guessed Blackford stopped him; I suspect with a ducal glare. “Can you sketch his face?”

He began immediately and in a matter of moments had drawn the outline of the man’s features.

“Why did you bring a set of plans for your new warship home with you that night?” Next to me, I felt Blackford stiffen. I kept my eyes on Gattenger, who kept working on his drawing.

“I wanted to check something.”

“What?”

“Someone had questioned one of the calculations that day, and I wanted to verify my figures.” He looked up at me. “The calculation affects several different facets of the ship, so I needed a full set of plans to check all the possibilities.”

“Was your calculation correct?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t had time to study it once I got home.”

“And why was that?” Blackford asked. “Because you and Mrs. Gattenger had an argument?”

“We didn’t have an argument.”

“We know you did. Your wife was very upset before you two went into the study that night.”

“We didn’t have an argument. She wasn’t upset.” Gattenger didn’t look up from his drawing at either of us as he spoke. He was lying.

I decided to ask what had puzzled me the most. “Why did you have a fire burning in that room on the hottest night of the year?”

“There was no fire.”

Leaning forward, I said, “I saw the ashes myself.”

He stared at me as he banged his fist on the table hard enough to make it jump. “There was no fire.”

For the first time, I doubted Phyllida. This liar sounded like a murderer.

T
HE
sound of Ken Gattenger banging his fist on the table echoed in the small stone room. Blackford and I looked at each other, and he gave me a tiny nod. I was to make the first attempt to get the man I now saw as a possible murderer to tell us the truth.

“We know there was a fire. We know you and Clara had a fight. Tell us what happened. It’s the only way to find her killer.”

The air seemed to escape his body. “We didn’t—it wasn’t an argument. Clara was told—oh, why bother with this now? She was told I had cheated the navy. That my design was basically flawed and I’d be the laughingstock of England, if I wasn’t thrown in jail for treason. Just as she told me what she’d heard, dinner was ready. We didn’t want to discuss it in front of the servants. I told her someone had questioned an equation, and I would verify it after dinner. There was nothing to worry about. Someone had blown the story out of proportion.”

“Did she stop worrying?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I pressed on. “Could there have been another problem?”

“No.” He snapped his answer.

A woman comes back upset after talking to another woman, and the only problem was business? I was certain something else was wrong.

“Here.” He slid the drawing of his attacker across the table to me.

“This is very good. I didn’t realize you’re an artist.”

“Comes from learning drafting at a young age. You start to see everything on a grid. Even faces.”

As I put the drawing of the killer in my bag, Blackford said, “Who raised the question about the calculation?”

“Sir Henry Stanford.”

“The shipbuilder?”

Gattenger’s look at the duke said there couldn’t possibly be two Sir Henry Stanfords. “Yes.”

“Did you and Stanford discuss the problem at the Admiralty the day of the break-in?”

“Yes.”

“You and Sir Henry Stanford were together in the Admiralty records room that particular day discussing your calculations in tones that could be overheard?”

Gattenger and I gave each other a puzzled look. “I suppose,” he said.

The duke rose from his chair so quickly he nearly knocked it over. He strode to the door but stopped before the guard reached the iron-barred gate to let him out. Then he marched back and sat down again.

“Who else was in the records office?” I asked.

“The clerks who work there. No one else.”

“Did any of them comment on your discussion of this problem with the calculation, or on your removing a drawing from their files?”

“No. They were all busy. Too busy to do more than fulfill my request.” Then Gattenger leaned toward me. “You don’t think Sir Henry Stanford was behind the theft, do you? He and Clara got on well. Clara got on well with everyone.” He loosed one sob and then fought to regain control.

“How would Sir Henry know anything about your calculations? The people at the Admiralty aren’t that far along in having your battleship built, are they?” the duke asked.

“Yes, they are. The drawings have been shown to three shipbuilders with instructions to bid on the work without taking the drawings outside of the records room. That’s where Stanford saw them.”

“Who are the other two?”

The names Ken Gattenger provided, Lord Porthollow and Mr. Fogburn, must have meant something to Blackford. I had never heard them before.

“Nothing is missing from the Admiralty and no one outside the records office has made any copies,” the duke murmured. “Thank you, Gattenger. That’s all we need for now.” He stood and waited for the guard to unlock the door.

“Wait!” I said as I sprang to my feet. “What about the fire?”

“What about it?” Gattenger asked.

“Who asked for the fire to be lit in the study?”

He huffed out a breath as he stared at me. Then he lowered his eyes. “Clara. She’d not been feeling well, and she was cold.”

I didn’t believe that any more than I believed his story about Clara’s worries concerning ship design flaws. And I hated being lied to by someone I wanted to help.

Blackford snorted and walked out of the sarcophagus-like space. Afraid I’d be trapped in this impenetrable fortress, I said good-bye to the prisoner.

He grabbed my hands and said, “This is all my fault. I’m to blame.”

I saw the anguish in his eyes, but I also heard Blackford’s footsteps marching away from me. “Why?” came out as a demand as I pulled my hands free.

Kenny Gattenger covered his face with his hands, shook his head, and sobbed.

“Why?” I asked again, torn between the fear of missing something important and the fear of being lost in those twisting, unforgiving corridors. When he didn’t speak, I left the room and rushed down the stone-paneled hallways, trying to catch up with Blackford and anxious to be out of this prison. I was out of breath when I reached the duke and then had to struggle to keep up with his long strides. As we crossed the last gate and exchanged the prison gloom for London’s sunny, humid streets, I grabbed Blackford by the sleeve. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer until we were both in the carriage and riding away from Newgate Prison. The smell of mildew and rot stuck to my clothes and remained in my nose. The duke didn’t appear to notice anything amiss. “Stanford is in financial trouble. I didn’t think he’d turn to treason to buy his way out.”

“You think he’s the link to the German spy?”

“I know he is. And I can’t question him. You, as Georgina Monthalf, will have to learn his secrets and retrieve the plans alone.”

“Why can’t you?”

“We aren’t on speaking terms. Haven’t been for years.”

He wanted me to accomplish all this while inhabiting another woman’s skin. I’d played this type of role before, but never for so long a time as this promised to be or in such a complicated investigation. If it weren’t for Phyllida, I’d have quit that instant.

*   *   *

THE NEXT FEW
days passed in a blur. When I wasn’t in the bookshop, I was constantly at Sir Broderick’s, ensuring I’d planned for every possibility. We seemed to have more customers than ever, but Frances acted as if she were born to be a shopkeeper. Our elderly patrons thought she was a joy. Our other regulars loved her. I’d have been jealous if I weren’t so busy.

The telephone was installed on the shop counter only three days after the meeting at Sir Broderick’s, setting a record in our part of town. Emma immediately called Sir Broderick’s and got Jacob. She and Frances had great fun practicing with the instrument. I knew I’d be able to measure their squeals of delight in shillings when the bill arrived.

The next afternoon, Adam Fogarty came in the shop, nodded to me, and walked toward the back. I signaled Emma to watch the shop and followed him into our office.

“We have a problem.” Fogarty paced the narrow space like a caged animal. He’d been a Metropolitan Police sergeant before an injury shortened the career he loved. Most of that career was spent outside on his feet. We’d worked together on Archivist Society investigations for nearly a dozen years, and I knew better than to even think of offering him a chair.

“Only one?” We were trying to help a man in prison who didn’t appear to want help.

“One of my sources, a desk sergeant, told me the highest levels of Scotland Yard have decided Gattenger is guilty of murder and treason and they aren’t looking any further. No one knows what kind of evidence they have, but it must be conclusive. They’re going to keep holding Gattenger, but Whitehall and the Admiralty are in charge of the investigation now, not our guys.”

“Murder and treason?” Good heavens. This was worse. Much worse, since they were adding treason.

“Yes. The whole case has landed in the steamy pits.” Fogarty picked up a book and set it down again.

“Thanks, Adam. We need to learn what the evidence is.” When the duke and I were at Newgate Prison, Gattenger had said everything was his fault. Was he guilty? Being blackmailed? Or a heartbroken and wronged man?

Fogarty stuck his head out the window and looked up and down the alley. When he pulled his head and shoulders back into the room, he said, “I met up with Inspector Grantham. He told me the case had been taken off his hands and placed with someone senior. He doesn’t know what the evidence is, but he believes it’s enough to hang Gattenger.”

He marched to the doorway and back. “I’ll see what I can find out from my sources in the police force, but they’re all too low level to know anything if Grantham doesn’t. I think we’ll need the duke to talk to Whitehall. Ask him, Georgia.”

“I will. Whether he decides to share that information is another question.”

“He needs to understand he isn’t the only one working on finding those warship plans.” Fogarty limped out of the office and waved good-bye to Emma, jingling the bell over the door as he left.

I walked to the counter and looked at the new contraption that had invaded my shop. “Emma, could you show me how to call the duke on this thing?”

“Gladly.” She walked over, gave me a superior smile, and picked up the narrow black tube. Lifting the earpiece off its cradle, she waited, then said, “Operator, I’d like to speak to the Duke of Blackford’s residence.”

A moment later, she handed me the instrument, and I found myself listening to the ghostly voice of Stevens, Blackford’s butler. I nearly dropped the telephone before I was able to reply.

Shortly after I asked Blackford to find out what evidence Scotland Yard and Whitehall had found against Gattenger, the afternoon post arrived. On top was a letter with South African stamps. I grabbed the letter opener and dispatched the envelope with one savage stroke.

The letter inside bore more information than I’d expected. “Emma, how do I call Sir Broderick?”

By the time he came on the line, I was clutching the black candlestick device with a stranglehold. “I heard from Mr. Shaw, the antiquarian dealer in Cape Town you recommended, Sir Broderick. A man who fits the description of my parents’ killer has recently been in Cape Town searching for a copy of the Gutenberg Bible. He apparently didn’t find what he wanted and has returned to Europe by ship.”

“You don’t need to shout, Georgia. The telephone works well. Does Shaw have a name for this man?”

I lowered my voice. “He called himself Mr. Wolf, but Mr. Shaw thinks it was a false name.”

“What else did Shaw say?”

“The story seems a bit confused, but this Mr. Wolf apparently decided an antiquarian collector named Vanderhoff had Wolf’s stolen Gutenberg Bible. Wolf clubbed Vanderhoff over the head and tore the man’s house apart, but didn’t find the book. By the time the police arrived, Wolf was gone. In fact, he sailed that night for Europe with some of Vanderhoff’s correspondence.”

There was a long pause over the line. Then Sir Broderick’s voice came back loudly and I pulled the small black speaker away from my ear. “Did these letters mention the Gutenberg Bible?”

“Shaw writes that he thinks they must have. Wolf called on Shaw once asking whether he’d seen Vanderhoff with the Gutenberg. At that time, Wolf told Shaw he intends to find his stolen Bible and reclaim it, and no one should stand in his way.”

“Tearing the house apart and attacking Vanderhoff sounds like the violence used by your parents’ killer. But Vanderhoff wasn’t killed?”

“No. He was knocked senseless and still hadn’t regained consciousness two days later when Mr. Shaw wrote.”

“At least this time he didn’t kill his victim, although it sounds like he may yet succeed. And you now have a name for the murderer.”

“I have more than that.” I could barely contain my excitement. “The only passenger ship leaving Cape Town that night sailed for Southampton. There’s a good chance this Mr. Wolf is here in England. I need to drop out of our current investigation and search for him.”

“No.” Sir Broderick’s voice boomed down the wire. “You will not let everyone, including Lady Phyllida, down.” Softening his tone, he said, “We’ll pick up his trail once this is over. I’ll help you, and I have contacts that can help you.”

“But—”

“No buts, young lady. Your parents wouldn’t approve of you letting your friends down. You’ve waited a dozen years. You can wait a little longer.”

The line went dead.

I set the telephone down with a crash. I didn’t want to wait any longer. The investigation to find and capture my parents’ murderer had hit too many brick walls over time. This was our first lucky break since I’d seen him a few months before.

Unfortunately, Sir Broderick was right. I couldn’t let Phyllida or the Archivist Society down. And I was looking forward to working with Blackford again.

*   *   *

THE NEXT MORNING,
a neatly dressed man with silver cuff links to match his silver-headed cane walked into the bookshop and peered around nearsightedly. “Miss Fenchurch?”

I stepped forward to wait on him. “Yes. May I help you?”

“Georgia Fenchurch?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sir Jonah Denby. My office in Whitehall is investigating the stolen warship blueprints, and I understand you’re helping uncover the circumstances of their disappearance.”

“Where did you hear that?”

His green eyes bore into mine. “There’s no reason to be alarmed. The Duke of Blackford mentioned it. Do you have any information for us yet?”