Untitled (27 page)

   Barely has she taken a bite of her toast when the bell rings. Mr. Henry's room. The widow wanting to get dressed. It clangs again, though even if she'd leapt from the chair and run from the kitchen she could not have been upstairs yet. "Hold your horses," she mutters as she gets to her feet. Her stomach is cramped with hunger, so she takes a big bite of the toast, and a long gulp of tea that turns the bread soggy in her mouth.

   She chews as she goes up the stairs and tries out new questions: Do your friends miss you, ma'am? Did you ever see a tiger? Were you happier in India, ma'am? As though coming to this dreary city as a widow could have given her the smallest pleasure.

   She clenches her fists and knocks them against her knees as she climbs the last flight of stairs to the bedroom.

        
I
t is an annoyance to have to work under lamplight in the middle of the day, but outside fog hangs like a curtain just beyond the windows. He'd forgotten how bad it could be, all those years in Paris, taking it for granted that a view from a tall building would be a view over the city. Not like London, where even on a clear day the haze from so much smoke obscures distant rooftops so that the city sits like an island on a pale sea. Then there's the reek of it—with the windows closed it still reaches his nose, a dark, unfinished smell.

   The light from the gas lamp is exhausting to work by—already he has a headache. Candles, he thinks, he needs candles. Plus a day or two of quiet to finish the lecture. Sir Jonathan will be there, and Dr. Taylor, and, he has been told, Harry Roberts from the Troup Committee. It will be his moment to impress, to make up for the debacle of his presentation. Perhaps not a debacle—but certainly he felt a fool, being told to move on to a new point, something they hadn't already heard from Dr. Taylor.

   What will he say to Taylor? The man is a blackguard. Will he have the audacity to ask questions after the lecture? Robert imagines himself at the podium taking a question from Taylor, a question that he can pull apart and show to be so wrongheaded that the man will look a fool. Yet he isn't a fool—that, indeed, is the problem. He's too clever to trust.

   He turns back to the desk. He picks up his pen and stares at the last words he wrote. From along the hallway comes a knock at the front door—yet another caller leaving a card. The absurd ritual of mourning; he is supposed to be too grief stricken to see visitors. At least it means he has time to work undisturbed.

   Stroking his moustache, he looks across the room, past the wallpaper and the walls, finding his way through a sentence that he has begun a dozen times already. There's a knock at the door, and he bellows, "Yes?"

   It's Cartwright, his white hair luminous against the dimness of the hallway. "Sir, a Mr. Michael Danforth calling on urgent business. I explained the sad circumstances in which we find ourselves, but he insisted that he see you if at all possible."

   Robert raises a hand to dismiss Cartwright, and the annoyance of the visitor, but he stops with his elbow just lifted from the desk. "Danforth, did you say?"

   "Yes, sir."

   "Michael Danforth? He's here? In the drawing room? Good Lord!" He laughs. "You can send him in—oh, but Cartwright?" He sits with his hand over his mouth, one finger tapping his nose, thinking. "Have Jane sent in—invent some pretext. But make sure she comes into the room while he's here."

   Cartwright's brows are pulled down. "A pretext, sir?"

   "Send her in with refreshments, or a message. Use your imagination, Cartwright."

   "Very well, sir."

   The absurdity of it delights him. Michael Danforth, daring to return after his audacious intrusion. He can reunite him with his hat—it is now sitting on the mantelpiece on a bust of Prince Albert that his father was fond of. He has to remind himself not to seem too gleeful; the house is in mourning, and Danforth will be bound to notice the incongruity.

   Danforth turns out to be a grey stick of a man in spectacles, with a thick moustache that hangs over his mouth like an awning. He holds out a hand, says, "So sorry to intrude on you at a time like this, but it's unavoidable, I'm afraid. A case of great urgency has come to my attention."

   Robert holds out his hand, feels Danforth's bony grip. From the mantelpiece beside them, Prince Albert peers out from under the brim of the burglar's hat that hangs loosely about his head. "My father," he says, and nods towards the bust, "was a great admirer of the prince."

   "Ah," says Danforth. His gaze follows Robert's, and for a moment he says nothing more.

   Robert feels himself tilt forward slightly, waiting.

   But when Danforth turns back to him, it's with a smile. "Being an anthropometrist, sir, perhaps you could measure up His Highness for a better-fitting hat."

   "Yes," he says quickly. He hopes Danforth doesn't notice the surge of blood to his face. "Quite so. Very good, very good." He indicates a chair by the fire, then takes its twin on the other side. Clever, he thinks, Danforth covering his own confusion by tripping him up like that. Why had he not noticed the ridiculousness of it himself ? The prince's head, half swallowed by the dusty hat.

   Danforth can barely sit down. Instead he perches on the very edge of the chair. "I won't beat about the bush. I've involved myself with a criminal case that could cause a sensation, however, I find myself unable to proceed without the aid of an anthropometrist."

   Robert presses his fingertips against his lips. "I see," he says, but he's not sure that he does. Danforth asking for his help? This has to be a trick.

   "Do you remember a case in Argentina last year? A dreadful murder in the offices of the Central Bank of Buenos Aires, and the discovery of the embezzlement of tens of thousands of pounds?"

   "No," he says. "I have no recollection of such a case."

   That is not the issue, however, and Danforth waves a hand as though to push the matter aside. "An awful case. A junior employee was arrested—one Arturo Villanova—and in the cellar of his house they found a bloody shirt, a hatchet with fingerprints that matched his, all manner of evidence pointing to him. He was put on trial, of course, but he was never convicted."

   "No?" Robert pauses for a moment. "Was the evidence insufficient?"

   Danforth lets out a snort of laughter. "He would have been found guilty, I'm positive. However, he escaped before the trial was over, and the money was never recovered. After his depredations, he was a wealthy fellow, and most likely he bought his way out of gaol."

   "And now he has been caught again?"

   "Not exactly." Danforth sucks at his lips. "Not yet, at least."

   There's a gentle tapping at the door—Jane—and Robert calls, "Come in."

   She's carrying a tray with two glasses of wine. She looks about her for a moment before approaching them where they sit by the fire. She seems unsure of herself, as though her feet might trip her on the carpet, or her hands become suddenly unable to bear this slight weight. Then she apparently makes up her mind and brings the tray close to Robert until he gives a shake of his head, and she understands and swings the tray towards Danforth.

   "Sir?" she says.

   "Ah," he says, and he takes a glass.

   Her back is towards Robert, so he sees no startled recognition. She turns to him now and he lifts his eyes to hers. They are dark and wide, the lashes longer than he remembers having noticed before. Maybe, he thinks, she is too well able to control herself, but he wants a sign. He holds her gaze, raises his eyebrows a little. However, she seems not to understand, for she looks back at him, then, as soon as he has lifted his glass off the tray, she takes off towards the door.

   When he looks back, Danforth is licking drops of wine from his moustache. He cannot decide if the man looks villainous or simply self-satisfied. "Ah," Danforth says, and brings his gaze back to Robert, "where was I?" He swivels the glass in his hand and stares into it. "Ah yes—last night at my club, a gentleman from Argentina—Arturo Vilaseca—was introduced to me by a mutual acquaintance. In his thirties, clean-shaven, speaks with a slight Spanish accent. In short, he appears to be what he claims, a gentleman visitor from that country, embarking on a tour of Europe."

   "Yet you have suspicions?"

   "Yes, indeed I do." He coughs into his hand. "Naturally, I followed the Buenos Aires case with some interest because of the use of dactylographic evidence by the prosecution. I have to tell you that"—and he leans forward—"this gentleman, this Vilaseca, is sufficiently similar to the accused to have aroused my suspicions. He too is in his early thirties, he too is left-handed and walks with a slight limp. What's more, his name is uncannily close to that of the suspect: Arturo Villanova. Naturally, one could explain it all as a coincidence—but then again—" He raises his hands as though to suggest the balance of evidence is against such a conclusion.

   Despite Robert's suspicions that this Michael Danforth is himself not above breaking the law, he finds himself strangely excited. "Have you gone to Scotland Yard? Surely they would be willing to arrest this fellow."

   "My dear man," says Danforth, "the inspector I spoke to said, 'I can hardly arrest a man for being from Argentina.' I fear there will be little help from that quarter. No—" he raises his eyes to Robert's "—we'll have to catch this Vilaseca ourselves."

   "If you are asking help from me, of all people, I imagine you have a plan."

   Danforth gives a smile that lifts the ends of his thick moustache. "Ah yes. In the interests of justice—and of clarifying the advantages and disadvantages of both anthropometry and dactylography—I have indeed come up with a plan."

   "One that will show the advantages of anthropometry?"

   "I could hardly expect your cooperation otherwise." He takes another sip of wine and frowns as he slides the glass onto the table. "I don't for a moment believe that anthropometry is without merit, just as I am sure that you see the advantages offered by dactylography. Naturally both systems are imperfect. We just happen to differ in our opinion on the relative significance of their drawbacks."

   Robert allows himself a small smile. "Such as the lack of a system for classifying fingerprints?"

   "Or the unavoidable fact that the human body alters as it grows to maturity? Or that it alters again as it ages?" He stares back at Robert, then blinks and turns away. From a bag by his side he extracts a small case, then, from inside the case, a wineglass, which he holds carefully by its base. "This," he says, lifting the glass, "is likely all the evidence needed to confirm Vilaseca's true identity." He points with one finger. "See the prints on the glass? One could hardly do better, except by fingerprinting the man."

   Robert peers forward. "Yes, I see them. So if they match those left in Buenos Aires, you'll know you have your man."

   "Exactly." Danforth sets the glass gently back into the case.

   "And thus the case of dactylography will be advanced."

   "Not quite, Mr. Bentley. Here is my problem. Vilaseca's leaving for Italy in a few days, and will be out of reach. I have his fingerprints. However, I have no way of sending them to Argentina for comparison before he departs."

   At this Robert gives a small cry. "I see," he exclaims. "If only you could measure him and send the information to Argentina by the telegraph, the authorities there could confirm his identity, and Scotland Yard might act."

   "Precisely."

   "But how can you be certain the Buenos Aires police took his measurements?"

"One of the detectives on the case is an enthusiast."

   "I see. Yes, yes." He sits back. "And yet we'd need a means of measuring him without arousing his suspicions."

   With a sweep of his arm Danforth reaches for his wine and winks at Robert. "I believe, Mr. Bentley, that I have found a solution to that particular problem."

       
C
limbing the stairs, Jane swallows to keep down the sour taste of fear. Her hands are not as clean as they might be. How could they be when she has spent the last hour on her knees scrubbing the linoleum up the back staircase? In the hall she pauses to wipe them on the back of her fresh apron. She knocks at the study door, then hears a brusque "Enter."

   Mr. Robert is at the desk. He glances up, but she knows better than to expect him to hurry himself on her account. So she closes the door and stands a few feet from it, looking around the room with all its books and piles of papers and the ill-looking lamp that lights it. Maybe, she thinks, the Bentleys have found out about Teddy.

   But if this were about Teddy, Mrs. Robert would have called her upstairs. No, this is not about him.

   Her breathing sounds unnaturally loud to her. In and out, in and out, measuring out the seconds that are passing as she stands there. Her work for the afternoon is rising up around her—what with interruptions to carry wine in to Mr. Robert and being called to the study again now, she has fallen behind. That is not something that they taught you to manage at the orphanage. No, there was no mention of what to do when your employers make it difficult for you to do your work.

   At last he sighs and sits back, tapping a pen against his teeth. "Come in, come in," he says. "There's no need to lurk by the door."

   He doesn't sound angry, or terse, and that's a good sign. Still, he stares as she comes close, as though he is expecting something from her.

   "Sir?" she says.

   "Do you have anything to tell me?"

   An awful stillness wells up through her belly, her chest, filling her throat. This must be what it's like to drown, she thinks. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Has Sarah spoken to Mr. Robert? Has she told him what she's found out, that she's the daughter of a woman hanged for murder? But why would she when their wages will be paid in just a couple of days, and she's not above profiting from such a secret?