The Vanishing Thief (2 page)

We were riding along Hyde Park Place just past Marble Arch, and I was staring at the crowded sidewalk. Moving smartly in the opposite direction, a book tucked under one arm, was my parents' killer.

As we approached, I could see most of his face above his ornately tied cravat, and then as we passed, I studied his profile under his top hat until a carriage blocked my view. I pressed my face to the glass, wishing the carriage away. It moved, and I was able to glimpse the murderer again from behind.

For a moment I stared openmouthed. He was dressed similarly to the other businessmen on the street, but I was certain.

It was him.

And I wasn't going to lose him a second time. Every muscle tensed as I leaped up. My heart pounded as I ran to the back of the bus, ready to jump off if the driver didn't stop the horses immediately.

“Wait, miss,” the conductor said, blocking my path as he signaled the driver to stop.

After a dozen years, I'd finally seen the monster again. I pushed the conductor aside and was off before the horses came to a halt. Heavy traffic flowed around me, blocking my way to the sidewalk. Knowing the man I sought must have a minute's head start on me, I was braver than usual, dodging behind a brewer's cart and a hansom cab. After close misses with a carriage and horse waste in the road, I was on the sidewalk, pushing past people in my hurry.

There were top hats in front of me as far as I could see. Which one was his?

As I strode down the sidewalk, looking each man in the face as I passed, being shoved aside by taller, heavier bodies, I was once more a powerless seventeen-year-old. My parents were newly dead. I suddenly had no one in this world to care about me. Tears again welled up with the grief and the terror. That horrible day was never far from my mind.

I had been helping my mother dust the shelves, since we'd just opened for the morning, and this immaculately well-tailored man was our first customer.

My father came forward to greet the man when he entered our bookshop. The man took off his top hat as he entered but left his newspaper under his arm. His hair was a white blond or silver and his stance proclaimed him a man of power and status. The man talked in a low voice to my father, who took a step back and said, “We don't have anything like that.”

The man grabbed him by the collar with his free hand and said, “I know better. Don't lie to me.”

Then he threw my father to the side and forced his way behind the counter. My father's mouth opened and shut twice without any sound emerging, as he grabbed at the man's sleeve. The man began to search through the antiquarian volumes but didn't find what he wanted. In his fury, he knocked books and papers off the counter, which my father kept trying to catch.

Then the man removed a gun from inside the newspaper and pointed the barrel at my father. My father raised his hands as an antiquarian volume he'd caught slid from his grip and fell to the floor in a cascade of pages.

My mother gasped. The man said, “If you want to see your husband alive at the end of the day, do as I say, Mrs. Fenchurch. You, too, Miss Fenchurch.”

His gaze on me made my skin feel like I'd fallen in a coal furnace, stabbing hot and falling away from my bones. How could I forget the wide brow, the long nose, the thin lips, the cruel eyes?

Unable to find what he was looking for, he forced us all outside into his well-kept black carriage. We left civilized London for the emptiness of the small farms just north of town. And all the time we huddled together, he kept his pistol aimed at us.

My father tried to talk to him, to bargain with him. “We don't have a Gutenberg Bible. We don't have anything that expensive. Why don't you let my wife and daughter go? You can have anything you want—”

“I want your Gutenberg Bible.”

“I don't have one,” my father wailed.

The look the man gave us—cold, ruthless, unyielding, indifferent—stopped all further talk.

I couldn't find a chance to unlock the door and jump from the carriage, so I spent my time memorizing his details. His boots were polished. His linen was sparkling white and not frayed. He wore a cravat tied in a high, elegant flourish.

When the vehicle paused and we climbed down, he sent the unmarked carriage off with just a gesture and marched us into an isolated cottage. Work was being done to the building and some of the interior walls were gone. Construction debris was everywhere. But there was no one around, inside or out, whom we could call to for help.

Several steps in, my father turned on the man, although he was taller and heavier than my father. My mother shoved me toward the door as I saw the fiend hit my father in the face with the butt of the pistol.

I ran.

Dear Lord, how I ran, sides aching, legs wobbling by the time I reached the suburbs and an omnibus line. I was lost, and it took three buses before I found an area I recognized. All that time, I knew that monster had my parents. What would he do to them?

It was midafternoon by the time I arrived, weary and tearstained, at the home of my father's partner in the business, Sir Broderick duVene. He was in his thirties then, an Oxford graduate, fencing enthusiast, and antiquarian collector. Since I thought I could lead him to the farmhouse, he secreted two knives on his person and hired a carriage to follow my directions. They were jumbled directions, and twice I got lost.

On the way there, I told him every detail I could think of. The man's expensive tailoring. The unusually pale shade of his hair and side whiskers. His fearsome glare.

We arrived at sunset. The cottage appeared deserted. Sir Broderick sent the driver to the nearest village to request the help of the local bobby and then return to us.

Just as we entered, the building exploded into fire. Sir Broderick pushed his way through the flames and debris. I followed and saw my parents tied up at the far side of the cottage. The evil man was gone.

Smoke made me gasp and stung my eyes. I screamed my parents' names over the fire's roar. We'd made our way about halfway across the inferno, pieces of plaster and roof raining around us, when a roof beam crashed down, striking Sir Broderick.

My parents were on the far side of the beam and Sir Broderick was directly in front of me, pinned under the beam. I could hear my parents screaming to me. I could see them struggling against their bonds through the smoke. Sir Broderick was groaning, trapped, right in front of me. If I could get him out, then I could get past the beam somehow and save my parents.

Coughing and sniffling, I rushed to save them. I managed to wedge wooden boards from the construction debris under the beam enough to free Sir Broderick. He couldn't move his legs. As I dragged him out of the house, the carriage driver returned and jumped down to help when I stumbled out the door.

As we pulled Sir Broderick to safety, I saw my parents' abductor standing nearby. He waved and then walked away.

I didn't have time to chase him. I grabbed one of Sir Broderick's knives and turned to run back in to free my parents, when the roof crashed down. I screamed, running toward the door. Strong arms stopped me as I struggled against the carriage driver, who held me back from running into the wall of flame. I shouted my parents' names, I cried, I wished I could stop the flames, but I knew I had failed.

There was nothing but an empty lake of flame where a cottage, and my parents, had been.

Blinking away the tears those memories always brought, I kept hurrying down the sidewalk, looking into the face of every top-hatted man I passed. For the first time since that day, I'd seen him. I had a chance to find the murderer and learn his name. To get justice for my parents.

Walking for blocks, I peered at the faces of a hundred men, but none of them resembled my parents' killer in the least. I passed upscale homes that overlooked Hyde Park. Had he turned into one of these elegant brick buildings or walked off onto a side street? Did he live in one of these houses, even now looking down on me as I rushed by in search of him?

No. I would have felt his presence. His evil.

I was frustrated I hadn't caught him today, but at least now I knew he was in London. There was a chance I might finally find my parents' killer, but today's opportunity was gone. I released my fists and took a deep breath. It was time to go in search of Nicholas Drake.

In the dozen years since my parents' death, I'd eased the pain of not seeing justice done for my parents by helping to rescue others. When there was no hope of rescue, I helped their loved ones find closure. And many of the people we assisted went on to aid the Archivist Society.

I glanced along the sidewalk once more, knowing I'd return here soon. This was the place to begin to solve my own investigation.

Chapter Two

R
ETURNING
to the omnibus stop, I caught the next, equally crowded vehicle to take me into the suburbs to learn what I could to help Nicholas Drake.

Drake's house was one in a redbrick row a few chilly minutes' walk from the omnibus stop, above working class in attitude but not in cash. There was no rubbish lying around, but mildew had already appeared on some of the wood trim and the sidewalks were starting to crumble.

I checked the address again. Not what anyone would expect for a man who traveled in society's upper strata. As I walked to the door, I passed by a tiny front garden holding only a single, scraggly bush. When I rapped on the door, a wrinkled woman with a mop of white hair stuffed under her cap opened the door a few inches.

“I'm looking for Mr. Drake. Are you his housekeeper?”

“Aye. Mrs. Cummings.” She crossed her bare forearms over her ample chest and blocked the doorway.

“I'm Miss Fenchurch. Miss Carter has me looking into the whereabouts of Mr. Drake. Could you spare me a moment of your time?”

“I told that woman—” She looked me over and glanced at the rain. “Well, never mind, come in and I'll tell you, too.” She stepped aside and I walked into the front hall.

In the dim illumination coming from the fanlight, I saw a closed door on one side of the hall before a flight of stairs that rose steeply upward. Next to the stairs, the hall leading to the back of the house was barely wide enough for one person to walk. The walls were painted, not papered, and the coat tree held one short garment. Mrs. Cummings's, I guessed.

“I believe you told Miss Carter that Mr. Drake has gone to visit friends in Brighton.”

“That's right.” The housekeeper smelled of cabbage and bread dough, but the hallway smelled of polish.

“Could you give me their name and direction, so I can verify his safe arrival?”

“Why would I do that?”

Wonderful. She was as obstinate as Miss Carter. “So I may put Miss Carter's fears to rest.”

“Her? An impossible task.”

“You find Miss Carter to be excitable?”

“Aye, and a busybody, too. Mr. Drake didn't mind living next door to her, but I can tell you, she's a difficult sort of neighbor.”

I'd had quite enough of hearing about Miss Carter. “Did you do Mr. Drake's packing for him?”

“No, he took care of that the very evening he received a message from his friend. After he returned from dinner with some lord.”

“Did you see the message from this friend?”

“No. He must have taken it with him.”

“Why would he do that?” I gave her such a look of concern she must have forgotten I'd never met Nicholas Drake.

“I don't know. And there was such a mess.” She glanced up the stairs. “There were plenty of things out of place, but I'm certain that was just from Mr. Drake packing in a hurry for his trip. He's like most gentlemen. He expects you to pick up after him.” She made a move to open the front door to show me out.

“And the pool of blood in the front hall? Is that part of the normal packing process for most gentlemen?”

She stopped, her shoulders slumped. “Miss Carter told you about that?”

I pointed at a dark stain on the floorboards. “What if the disorder was caused by his abductors?”

She shook her head. “It couldn't have been. Mr. Drake must be all right.”

I tried another line of inquiry. “When did Mr. Drake tell you he was traveling to Brighton?”

“The same morning Miss Carter came over in a state, saying Mr. Drake had been abducted. She had a nightmare, silly woman.”

If she saw him that morning, the blood in the hall wasn't Drake's, and Edith Carter had lied. I was furious at the dishonesty of my client, and my fury came out in my tone. “You saw him that morning?”

Mrs. Cummings shuffled back in surprise. “No. He left me a note. He often did when he'd be gone before I arrived.”

“Only Mr. Drake was in the house that night?”

“Any night.”

“Are you the only one who looks after Mr. Drake?”

“Any help I need, he's given me permission to hire from the neighborhood.” She put her hands on her hips and gave a sharp nod.

“If Mr. Drake were in any danger, is there any family or friends that he would go to?”

“He's alone in the world as far as family goes. He has two friends, Mr. Harry and Mr. Tom, he's worked with on occasion.”

“What are their last names?”

“Mr. Drake only used their Christian names. I've never heard last names.”

“What line of work are they in?”

“I don't rightly know. From what I overheard, they did some of this and that.”

They didn't sound like a law-abiding trio. “There was no sign of a disturbance at any of the outside doors?”

“Not that I saw.”

I put sympathy in my voice. “He must have fallen on hard times if he lives here and dines with lords.”

“It's only right he eat with lords, since he's descended from French royalty.” The housekeeper nodded to herself at the rightness of it. “Then, when he returned home, he had a message from a sick friend and off he went to Brighton.”

“Please tell me this friend's name and address.”

“He told me the name of his friend and he told me Brighton. More than that I didn't need to know. And I don't see where it's any business of yours.”

“There's blood in the front hall, the house was left a mess, and no one's heard from Mr. Drake in days. Someone needs to make sure Mr. Drake is in good health.”

The puzzled look on her face told me she now doubted Drake had left under his own steam. I pressed my advantage. “What is his friend's name?”

“All right. Just don't tell her next door. He went to visit Mr. Dombey.”

“Paul Dombey?”

“Yes. You know him?” The housekeeper looked relieved.

“Oh, yes.” Dickens was popular with my customers. In
Dombey and Son
, Paul Dombey, the son, goes to Brighton. Was Drake forced to lie to his housekeeper? Or had he written that note before his intruders arrived?

* * *

“THE DUKE HAS
no wish to discuss Nicholas Drake again.” The gray-haired man, presumably the butler, spoke in a hush that didn't echo in the marble-tiled front hall.

I restrained my desire to stare at the ornately carved balustrade, the delicately painted ceiling with its pastoral settings, and the exquisite oil paintings. The duke wasn't short of a pound if the entrance hall was anything to go by.

“I only need two minutes of his time and then I won't bother him again.” I tried to fill my words with quiet authority, since my appearance wouldn't garner respect. Wind had forced rain under my umbrella while I'd walked from the omnibus stop. Then, as the rain continued to pour down, I'd spent time arguing that my business was with the duke and I would not use the tradesmen's entrance. Thank goodness there was no mirror in the hall. I must have looked like a drowned pup.

“He doesn't wish to be bothered at this time.”

I'd seen the door the butler had left and returned by. One quick dodge around the older man and I'd be through that doorway. “That is most unfortunate.”

I turned as if leaving, and when the butler moved around me to help me on with the cloak I'd previously shed, I dashed down the hall.

Skidding on the polished floor in my wet shoes, I grabbed for the door handle. I threw open the door and entered a warm, paneled study filled with enough books and maps to make me feel at home. My shoes squished as I hurried across the thick Oriental carpet.

“Your Grace,” the butler said from behind me.

The Duke of Blackford remained seated at his massive desk studying the papers in his hand. “I'll handle it, Stevens.” His voice was a weary growl. I could imagine this man, wide shouldered, craggy faced, immaculately tailored, throwing the unimposing Edith Carter out of his house. He hadn't risen or even looked up when I entered the room. Philistine.

And then he set his papers on the pristine desktop and stared at me with eyes that challenged my right to breathe the air in his study.

I could play my role better than he could. I curtsied. The door clicked softly behind me as the butler left, followed by an icy raindrop skittering down my cheek. I didn't like being left alone with this man. For once I wasn't worried about my reputation; I was worried for my life. His dark eyes bore into me, proclaiming he ate more important people for breakfast. And there was the small matter of the blood on Drake's floor.

“Well?” he demanded in a deep voice. “Why are you here?”

“Your carriage was seen at the site of an abduction.” My voice didn't tremble, but my knees did.

“Whose abduction?”

“Mr. Nicholas Drake.”

A cruel smile slashed across his sharp-angled face. “Another of his lovers? The middle class grows more interesting.”

Heat rose on my cheeks. “I've never met the man.”

“Then why do you care?”

“Friendship.”

“For that drab little mouse Miss . . . ?” He made a graceful, sweeping motion with the long, tapered fingers of one hand. Then his gaze returned to the papers on his desk.

If he thought he could convince me to leave by ignoring me, he was most certainly wrong. I stalked toward the smooth mahogany desk and glared at the seated man. “Her name is Miss Carter. Are you familiar with friendship, Your Grace?”

He rose and looked down on me. I'm of insignificant stature, and he had the advantage of height as well as the bearing of a duke. His black hair was ruthlessly slicked back and his dark-eyed gaze burned inside me. “You're dripping on my desk, Miss”—he glanced at the card I'd sent in with the butler—“Fenchurch.”

I hopped back a step and gazed down. Two drops shimmered on the polished wood. I wished I'd sent in one of my cards with a false name. This man knew how to intimidate his inferiors without even mentioning his title. I decided not to ask about the death of his fiancée. I'd already made the mistake of letting him know my true identity.

He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped off the rain, then looked from the cloth to me as if he didn't know how to proceed with propriety. He held out the large white square. “You might want to pat yourself off. You appear to have spent too long outdoors.”

For an instant, I saw concern in his eyes, but was it for me or his desk? Then all expression vanished. I took the handkerchief and wiped my face and hat brim. “You haven't answered my question.”

His voice was dry with annoyance when he said, “I am familiar with friendship.”

“Then you understand why I've taken on this commission for her.” I handed back the handkerchief.

“No.” He tossed the cloth on the floor as he came out from behind his desk. “And if you're going to continue this ridiculous debate, you need to stand close to the fire. Otherwise, you'll soak my carpet.”

The infuriating man was making this as difficult as possible. Debate, indeed. All he had to do was answer my questions. But the grip on my elbow was gentle as he led me close to the comforting blaze.

For a moment, I shut my eyes in bliss. The welcome warmth made my fingers and toes tingle with renewed sensation. When I opened my eyes, my gaze fell on a seventeenth-century terrestrial globe in pristine condition. “Oh, how beautiful,” slipped out before I thought.

Blackford strolled over to the sphere and ran one forefinger along the Atlantic. “It is magnificent, isn't it? The third duke brought it back from Italy.”

I stared at the globe in wonder for a moment before I gave him a grateful smile and said, “Perhaps you'll save both of us time by telling me where your coach was on the night of March fourteenth?”

“Which coach?”

He was a duke. He probably had more carriages than I had dresses. “A tall, ancient one, all black, pulled by black horses.”

“The Wellington coach. Why? Was that the night Drake disappeared?”

I shook out my damp skirts before the fire, reveling in the heat. Perhaps that was what made me less cautious. “Yes. If your coach was otherwise engaged, then it couldn't have been involved, and I needn't bother you any longer.”

The duke returned to his desk and opened a slender volume. As he flipped through the pages, a curly lock of black hair slid over his stiff white collar. I was certain he'd have the errant strand chopped off for unruliness. “Last Thursday, I attended the theater and then had a late supper at the home of the Duke of Merville, where my carriage waited for me. My coachman was unaware of when I would next require him. We returned here at two o'clock on the fifteenth.”

“The theater let out about eleven?”

“Yes. The duke and duchess rode to the theater and back in my carriage.”

Eleven was the time Edith Carter saw Drake tossed into the duke's carriage. “I will, of course, verify this with the Duke of Merville.”