Don't Look Back (27 page)

Tredlow had been thrilled to discover it when he moved into the space, she recalled. He had converted it into a large safe and used it to store his smaller artifacts and those that he considered most precious. Presumably, since it was fitted with a bolt on the inside, it had originally been designed as the entrance to a secret tunnel constructed for the purpose of allowing the homeowner to escape his enemies. But the underground pathway had been sealed shut with stone blocks a long time ago.

Tredlow had installed a heavy iron lock on the outside of the door. He always carried the key on his person.

The strong room should have been locked, she thought. Tredlow would never have left it open. Certainly not willingly.

She started toward the strong room. Her toe collided with one of the three bronze legs that supported an ornately carved Roman brazier.

Swallowing a gasp of pain, she glanced down. The light fell on several dark spots on the floor. The slight glistening of the patches indicated that they were still damp.

Water, she told herself. Or perhaps some tea or ale that Tredlow had spilled recently.

But she knew, even as she stooped to take a closer look, that it was not water or tea or ale that stained the floor. She was staring at half-dried drops of blood.

The small splashes made a ghastly trail that ended abruptly at the edge of a stone sarcophagus. The lid of the coffin was in place, sealing shut the interior and whatever lay inside.

She reached out uneasily to test the spots with the tip of her gloved finger. At that instant she heard the unmistakable squeak of the wooden timbers that formed the ceiling overhead.

Fear as sharp as a shock of electricity singed her senses. She straightened so swiftly and awkwardly that she lost her balance. Frantically, she reached out to brace herself on the closest object, a life-size male figure. The statue held a sword in one hand. In his other fist he grasped a repellent object.

Perseus holding the severed head of Medusa.

For a terrifying instant she was unable to move. It was as if she had been frozen in place by the Gorgon's gaze. The creature's unrelenting stare was truly mesmeric in its intensity. The snaky locks that writhed around the creature's stone face appeared horrifyingly realistic in the wavering light of the candle.

Wood creaked again in the terrible stillness. Footsteps. Directly overhead. Someone was up there, crossing the floor toward the staircase that descended to this level. Not Edmund Tredlow. She was very sure of that.

More squeaks.

The intruder was moving purposefully now. The footsteps came more rapidly. The person upstairs was aware of her presence. He had no doubt heard her call out to Tredlow.

Another sizzling shot of electricity freed her from the stare of the stone Medusa. She had to get out of this place quickly. The intruder would soon be on the stairs. It would take mere seconds for him to reach this room. She could not possibly get through the curtained opening that divided the shop in time to escape through the front door.

That left only the back entrance, the one Tredlow used to receive his stock of artifacts and antiquities. She whirled around, candle held on high, and searched the shadows. Through the forest of looming bronze and stone figures and the canyons of crates and boxes stacked to the ceiling, she caught glimpses of the back wall.

She went along a narrow alley formed by several impressive gravestones. Halfway to her objective, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw the glow of candlelight dancing on the ceiling near the staircase. Despair tore through her. The intruder was already in this room. If she could see his candle flame, he could almost certainly detect hers.

She would never be able to make it to the back entrance in time.

Her only hope was the strong room. If she could get inside and bolt the heavy door behind her, she would be safe.

She rushed toward the small chamber, not bothering to mask the sound of her movements. She halted on the threshold of the stone room, her courage nearly failing her when she realized just how small the space was.

She did not like close, confined places. In point of fact, she hated them.

The sound of booted footsteps coming relentlessly toward her was incentive enough to stiffen her resolve. She glanced back one last time. The figure of her pursuer was concealed by the stacks of statues and crates, but the glow of his candle was all too visible. It bounced and flared off the faces of monsters and gods as he came nearer.

She took a deep breath, stepped inside the cramped strong room, grasped the iron handle of the door, and pulled with all her strength.

It seemed to take forever for the heavy wooden panel to close. For a dreadful moment she thought that it must be stuck and that all was lost.

Then, with a ghostly whine, the door slammed closed. The candle flame jerked wildly one last time, glinting briefly on rows of ancient metal and glass objects, and then winked out of existence.

She was instantly plunged into a darkness as thick and heavy as that of a tomb. With trembling hands she managed to fumble the ancient iron bolt home by sense of touch. It seated itself with an ominous clang.

She shut her eyes and pressed her ear to the thick wooden door panel, straining to listen. The best she could hope for was that the intruder would soon realize that he could not get at her and would elect to leave the premises as quickly as possible. Then she could let herself out of this dreadful little chamber.

She heard the muffled scrape of iron on iron.

It took her a few seconds to understand the full horror of what had just occurred. With a terrible sinking sensation, she comprehended that the intruder had just turned Tredlow's key in the lock.

He was not even going to try to wrest her from her hiding place, she thought. Instead, he had effectively sealed her into this small, dark space that was not much larger than an ancient Roman sarcophagus.

The two men came toward him out of the fog, long black greatcoats unfastened so that the folds of the heavy garments swept the tops of their gleaming boots. Their faces were obscured by the brims of their hats and the rapidly deepening shadows.

"We've been waiting for you, Mr. Fitch," the older one said softly. He moved with a slight catch to his stride, but for some reason the evidence of past injury only made him appear all the more menacing.

The other man did not speak. He stayed a few steps back and to the side, watching events unfold, waiting for instructions. Fitch was reminded of a young leopard taking lessons from a more experienced hunter.

The older man was the one to fear.

The valet was stricken with a wave of deep dread. He stopped suddenly and glanced wildly around, seeking an escape route. None presented itself. The lights of the coffeehouse he had left a few minutes ago were at the end of the lane, too far away to afford any refuge. There were naught but empty, darkened doorways lining both sides of the pavement.

"What d'ya want with me?" He tried to sound firm and forceful. He'd had some experience in that line, he reminded himself. A good valet was expected to develop an air of grave authority.

Mayhap
grave
was not quite the appropriate word here.

"We wish to speak with you," the more dangerous man said.

Fitch swallowed. They were too well dressed to be footpads, he told himself. But somehow that deduction did nothing to reassure him. The expression in the older man's eyes made him want to take to his heels. But he knew that he would not get far. Even if he managed to outrun this hunter, he would never escape the young leopard-in-training.

"Who are you?" he asked. He heard the anxious-ness in his own voice and cringed.

"My name is March. That is all you need to know. As I said, my companion and I wish to ask you a few questions."

"What sort of questions?" Fitch whispered.

"You were employed as valet to Lord Banks until quite recently. According to our information, you were turned off with no notice."

Real fear struck him then.
They knew what he had done.
The Creature had discovered the theft and sent these two after him.

Fitch's mouth went dry. He had been so certain that no one would ever miss the damned thing, but he had been found out. Visions of calamity sent shudder after shudder through him. He could be transported or even sent to the gallows for this.

"We would like to know if you helped yourself to a certain valuable on your way out the door," March said.

He was lost, Fitch thought. There was no hope for him. No point trying to deny his guilt. March was the sort who would hound a man to the ends of the earth. The promise was there in the bastard's eyes.

His only hope was to throw himself on the leopard's mercy and hope that he might be able to buy his way out of the disaster.

"She let me go without even paying me my quarterly wages. And she gave me no references." Fitch slumped against an iron railing. "After all my hard work. I did my best, I tell you, but it wasn't easy servicing the Creature."

"You refer to Mrs. Rushton?" March asked.

"Indeed. Twice a week it was, sometimes more often if she happened to be feeling particularly spirited. For nearly three long months." Fitch straightened a little at the memory of his heroic efforts. "The Creature was the most demanding employer I've ever had. And then she turns me off with no notice, no references, and
no bloody pension.
Where's the justice in that, I ask you?"

The younger man spoke for the first time. "Why did Mrs. Rushton let you go?"

"She started taking regular therapeutic treatments with a bloody mesmerist." Fitch grimaced. "Claimed he did more for her nerves than I did. She came back from an appointment one day and casually announced that she wouldn't be requiring my services anymore."

"So she let you go and you decided you were owed a little something by way of compensation, is that it?" March asked.

Fitch opened one hand, palm up, silently beseeching the hunter's understanding. "It wasn't fair, I tell you. That's why I took the damned snuffbox. Never thought it would be missed, to tell you the truth. Banks hasn't taken snuff for nearly a year and not bloody likely to ever use the stuff again."

March's eyes narrowed. "You took a snuffbox?"

"The thing had been sitting there at the back of a drawer in his lordship's dressing room for longer than anyone can remember. Who'd have thought she'd even know about it, let alone care if it went missing?"

March closed the distance between them. "You took a
snuffbox}"

"Thought everyone in the household had forgotten about it long ago." Fitch gazed dolefully down at the pavement, wondering at the unkindness of fate. "Can't see how the Creature ever came to discover that it was gone."

"What of the bracelet?" March said.

"Bracelet?" Fitch raised his head, bewildered now. "What bracelet are you talking about?"

"The ancient gold bracelet that Banks kept in his locked safe," March said. "The one set with an unusual cameo."

"That old thing?" Fitch grunted in disgust. "Why the devil would I take it? One would have to deal with someone in the antiquities market in order to make a profit on a relic like that. I'd learned enough working for Banks all those years to know that I did not want to get involved with that lot. They're a strange breed, they are."

March exchanged an unreadable look with his companion and then turned back to Fitch. "What did you do with the snuffbox?"

Fitch shrugged morosely. "Sold it to a fence in Field Lane. I suppose he might be persuaded to tell you who bought it, but—"

March reached out and gripped the lapels of Fitch's coat. "Do you know what happened to the Medusa bracelet?"

"No." A glimmer of hope rose in Fitch. The hunter did not appear the least concerned with the snuffbox. All he cared about was the antiquity. "The bloody thing's gone missing, then, has it?"

"Yes." March did not release him. "I and my friend here are looking for it."

Fitch cleared his throat. "Can I assume that if I tell you what little I know about the matter, you'll have no further interest in me?"

"That would be a reasonable assumption on your part, yes."

"I don't know where it is, but I'll tell you this much. I very much doubt that anyone in the household stole it, for the same reasons that I did not bother with it."

"Too difficult to sell?"

"Precisely. None of the staff would have any notion of how to make a profit on such a relic."

"Do you have any idea of who might have taken it?"

"No—"

March gave him a slight shake.

"But I'll tell you this much," Fitch said quickly. "The day the Creature moved into the mansion, she took charge of all the keys, including the one to his lordship's safe. Unless an intruder broke into the house, made his way unseen upstairs to Banks's bedchamber, found the dressing room, located the hidden safe, picked the lock, and then managed to sneak out undetected, all of which seems a bit unlikely, I'd say there's only one person in the whole world who might have helped herself to the artifact."

"Mrs. Rushton? Why would she steal a valuable that she was due to inherit shortly? Indeed, one that she could have taken at any time, unquestioned, had she wished to do so?"

"I have no clue, Mr. March. But I'll give you some advice. Don't underestimate the Creature or be so foolish as to presume that her actions conform to your logic."

The hunter held him in his clutches for a moment longer, as if thinking over the matter of what to do with his captive. Fitch realized he was holding his breath.

Then quite suddenly March released him. Fitch lost his balance, stumbled back, and came up hard against the railing.

March inclined his head with mocking formality. "My companion and I are obliged to you for your assistance, sir."

He turned and walked away into the fog without a backward glance. The young leopard gave Fitch an icy smile and then fell into step beside his mentor.

Fitch held himself very still until the pair disappeared into the swirling mist. When he was certain that he was once again alone in the street, he risked a deep breath.