City of Secrets (10 page)

These were obviously Laurence Fox’s own work, dating back to his early experiments. Most were portraits, many of the subjects well known even to Maddie’s foreign eyes. But she liked those of ordinary people best: a child with huge dark eyes, a boy in his school uniform, a group of kitchen maids caught in the middle of laundry day, two ladies in Russian blouses paused in front of a shop window, a stout gentleman walking his equally broad bulldog in the park.

But then her eye was caught by a photograph of a party of holiday makers on a large boat. The subject of the composition was a family of four, but leaning on a railing in the background was a familiar figure, slightly out of focus but unmistakable. It was Teddy.

Of course! That was why she could not imagine Teddy in England. He had gone abroad, after all. Hope surged in her again. She had told Devin Grant that she had to take action for her own peace of mind, but it was mostly hope that fueled her actions.

“Fortunately, it was a smooth crossing,” Laurence’s voice said from behind, startling her. “I was able to set my camera up on deck long enough to take several shots.”

He handed her a cup of tea, which she took automatically, turning back to the photograph. “When was it taken?” she asked.

“On the cross-channel packet, last autumn. I believe there is a date on the back.” He unpinned the print from the wall and turned it around. “Yes, twenty-one October.”

Maddie took it from him and stared at the image for a moment, forgetting the tea that was rapidly cooling in her other hand. “May I purchase this print from you, Mr. Fox? As a memento of this morning.”

He made a little bow and said, “It is yours, Mrs. Malcolm, with my compliments and gratitude.”

She smiled up at him then, realizing how kind he was not to question her reasons for wanting that particular image, and for giving it to her so freely. He smiled back, his dark blue eyes reflecting his good nature. He really was, Maddie thought, a very sweet boy. She was glad she had come.

Oliver Drummond walked up Fleet Street at a pace that exactly mimicked that of the bowler-hatted businessman in front of him and harmonized with the darting movements of newspaper copyboys and the sweeping gestures of the cabbie at the corner helping a monocled peer into his vehicle. Oliver liked to blend in with his environment, but this world was still new to him, and his eyes were alive with interest. He had grown up in Chicago, but hadn’t realized until now how much he had missed the bustle and excitement of a city.

He found the pub easily enough, although it was down a narrow alley off Whitefriars. It took him a minute to adjust his eyes to the smoke and dim light inside, but then he saw Devin Grant at a table near the back, his head silhouetted against a window. Although Oliver couldn’t see Grant’s eyes, he guessed that the detective had been watching him since he came into the public house.

Grant didn’t get up, but he shook Oliver’s hand and motioned for him to sit down. Only then did Oliver remember that Grant towered over him, and in such a confined location his standing up would have made that even more obvious. Oliver was conscious of such things, but he wouldn’t have expected it from Grant.

“Was this your idea or hers?” Grant said, when he had ordered a pint of bitter for each of them. Oliver did not pretend to misunderstand.

“Hers.”

Grant raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. Oliver thought he was testing him and decided that honesty would be more useful at this point than retaliating with a test of his own.

“She recognizes the need for us to cooperate with each other, Mr. Grant. We do have the same objective, after all.”

Grant didn’t respond to that either, but Oliver thought there was an ironic twist to his smile.

“Don’t you agree?” Oliver pressed him.

“I should tell you that I am more accustomed to working alone,” Grant said.

“And I prefer to make my job easier by getting as much help as possible. You needn’t be concerned, however, that I will insist on accompanying you everywhere you go. I realize that your undercover work for a certain important person does not lend itself to confidences.”

It was a shot in the dark, but Oliver could see that it hit the mark. Grant did not, oddly enough, seem concerned that Oliver knew more than he was supposed to.

“How do you suggest we work out our differences, then?” he said, lobbing the ball back into Oliver’s court.

“We need only be aware of them, I think. You may continue to work in the way you are accustomed to do—”

“Good of you.”

“—and I shall do likewise. We need only meet regularly to compare our findings and decide on the next step—on
my
next step, if you wish. I am at your disposal.”

“At Mrs. Malcolm’s request?”

“At her wish.”

“A fine distinction.”

This time it was Oliver who held his tongue. Grant was touchier than he had expected. Did his attitude stem from his assignment from Mrs. Malcolm or from the prince? Oliver could hardly ask, however, at least not at this point in their relationship. He would have to go slowly.

He took a swallow of his beer, and the taste of it registered on him for the first time. His expression registered on Grant, who smiled suddenly.

“Haven’t you been in a pub since you came to London?” he asked.

“I always just asked for ale.”

“There are ales ... and ales.”

“So I perceive.”

Oliver looked at Grant and decided he had passed the test—for today, at any rate. Grant was going to be wary for some time, yet.

“Tell me how Mrs. Malcolm’s husband became involved with the anarchists.”

If this was a further test, Oliver was glad to take it. This was the one thing he had never told his employer because it would have hurt her. He had told himself there was no point in her knowing, but keeping it to himself had weighed heavily on him.

“He went to work for a local politician in St. Louis but was fired for taking bribes. Mrs. Malcolm knows he lost the position, but she was told it was because Mr. Malcolm had been offered a better one. He had been—by his lights. He became a back-room assistant to a less scrupulous councilman in another ward. This man had a wide acquaintance with the underworld, and through him, Malcolm joined an anarchist group based in Pittsburgh. He used to go there regularly, more for the excitement of the forbidden, I suspect, than because he believed in what they did. He never told his wife about that either, possibly for the same reason.”

“Do you know the names of any of this group?”

Oliver reached into his pocket for a notebook and wrote down the names, which he had memorized to avoid carrying anything incriminating around with him. Grant glanced at them, and Oliver thought he looked disappointed.

“Have you contacted any of these people?”

“The first two in Pittsburgh, yes. The others had dispersed to various parts of the world. The last two are supposed to be here in England.”

“Don’t waste your time looking for them. Briggs is dead, and Parker was in Rome last year but hasn’t been heard of since. Here, I’ll give you two other names to look for.”

Oliver glanced at the names Grant wrote in the notebook. Frank Hartwell and Michel Lamont. “Where have you looked already?” he asked.

Grant shook his head. “I won’t tell you, simply because if you start from scratch, you’re less likely to overlook something. I know a little about these men, but I need more.”

“Do they have anything to do with Edward Malcolm?”

Grant smiled. “You’re right, I’m getting help wherever I can, too. But yes, they do have to do with Malcolm. I’m just not sure how yet.”

Oliver tore out the notebook page and lighted a match to it. Then he stood up and held his hand out again to Grant. “I’ll start right away. Shall we meet here again tomorrow?”

Grant shook his head. “In two days, at the King’s Arms in Chancery Lane.”

“How is their bitter?”

Grant smiled. “Try it for yourself.”

#

Maddie had put the photograph Laurence Fox gave her in her evening purse as soon as she returned to the hotel from her session at his studio, so that she’d have it with her to show to Devin Grant at dinner. She was unsure of the photograph’s significance, but it appeared to confirm their conclusion that Teddy had left England for France last October. At least inquiries might be reinstituted at Calais, now that they knew the precise date of Teddy’s arrival in France.

“Where is Oliver?” Maddie broke the silence to ask Louise as she was being dressed. “Has he returned from that errand I sent him on—and has he forgiven me for it?”

“I believe he is next door having his tea, ma’am,” Louise said, responding only to the first question.

Maddie waited until Louise had finished buttoning up the back of her black satin-and-jet evening gown, then reached into her handbag for the photograph. “Take this to him, if you would, and ask him to see me.”

“I haven’t finished your hair yet, ma’am,” Louise of the unalterable priorities objected.

“Never mind. You can do it while Oliver and I talk. Take this to him, please.”

Five minutes later Oliver Drummond came into the room and raised his eyebrows into Maddie’s mirror.

“Is it any help?” Maddie asked.

“Well, it is certainly a confirmation ... if this date on the back is accurate?”

“Yes, apparently Mr. Fox dates all his work by the day it was made. I notice that he also wrote down the name of the packet boat.”

“May I keep this?”

“I’m afraid not. I really must give it to Mr. Grant tonight or risk yet another accusation on his part that I am hampering his investigation. How did your meeting go?”

Oliver looked at the photograph once more, as if committing it to memory. Then he handed it back to her and gave her a brief summary of his conversation in the pub with Devin Grant; it was briefer than he would have liked, since there was very little he felt free to repeat. He tried to give the impression that he was cutting his report short because she was going out and would see him again soon in any case. She seemed to accept that, making no comment as Louise finished her hair, carefully fastening it with diamond-studded combs and black feathers to match Maddie’s gown.

“Someone has been making inquiries about you, too,” Oliver told her.

“Mr. Grant?”

“I thought so, at first. But the duty officer at Bow Street described someone quite unlike him. He also complained that I was the second man to come around asking about anarchists, and the first one was looking for a woman. I pressed him for more information, and he repeated the woman’s description. I’m afraid it sounded very much like you, ma’am.”

“Dear me!” Maddie said, thinking it best to make a joke of the matter. “I trust I shall not be apprehended in the street. Did you tell this to Mr. Grant?”

“No. I found out after I had met with him.”

Maddie struggled with that for a moment. “Very well,” she said at last. “I’ll tell him. At least I’ll be well protected tonight. I can’t imagine anyone attempting to wrest me away from the formidable Mr. Grant.”

“Nevertheless, Mrs. Malcolm,” Louise interposed, repeating herself for the third time that day, “I don’t feel easy about you going out alone in any man’s company.”

“I’m sure Mr. Grant will behave himself, Louise.”

“Shall I make sure of that?” Oliver asked, meaning, Maddie knew, that he would shadow their movements. But she thought the potential for danger too slight to chance the greater likelihood of Oliver’s being detected. Besides, she was looking forward to at least one evening’s worth of private life. Much as she loved Louise and Oliver and was grateful to them for their solicitude, there were times when she just had to get out from under their protective wings.

“No, thank you, Ollie. I think I can risk it. Anyway, you and Louise haven’t had an hour to yourselves since we arrived in London. Why don’t you go out to dinner somewhere yourselves? Go to the music hall, if you like.”

Louise protested, but Oliver smiled and overruled her for once. “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll do that.”

“Good!” Maddie tucked a handkerchief under her sleeve, picked up her purse and the cloak that was lying across her bed, and kissed Louise on the cheek. “Well, I’m off, then. And for heaven’s sake, Louise, don’t hurry back, and don’t wait up for me! I’ll see you both in the morning.”

#

Maddie descended by the red-upholstered lift to the lobby of the Savoy, trying to keep her mind off her strangely beating heart. This was only a business engagement, she told herself, even if it was evening. Devin Grant was only her employee, however attractive he might be, and however long it had been since a good-looking man, or any man for that matter, had taken her out to dinner ... escorted her to dinner, she supposed she ought to say.
Oh dear, could she have wounded his masculine pride by taking the initiative? She hadn’t considered that.

Turning her mind to the ethics of the situation, she lost her nervousness by the time the lift reached the ground floor, and she stepped out of it confidently. Emerging into the lobby, however, she realized she must be early after all, for Devin was nowhere to be seen. She sat down on a sofa to wait.

Five minutes later, she glanced at her watch. It was precisely eight o’clock. He should be here at any moment. 

Ten minutes later, she was tapping her satin-slippered foot irritably on the carpeted floor. Where
was
the man?

She glanced around the room again, even knowing she could not possibly have missed him. To her left, a man in a bowler hat was watching her in a rudely intent manner; he lifted his hat to reveal grey-streaked dark hair parted in the middle and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and tipped the bowler insolently in her direction. Maddie stared back in a way she had found effectively discouraging in the past, but the man seemed oblivious to hints. Instead, he grinned at her.

It was then that Maddie realized why he looked, as well as acted, overly familiar. She let out a gasp. It was Devin Grant!

He got up then and approached her.