Lie by Moonlight (15 page)

“Trust me, it was no kitchen fire,” Trimley said.

Trimley’s certainty irritated him. At the start of their arrangement, he had been eager enough to learn everything Larkin could teach him. But lately he had begun to act as if he were the senior partner.

They were both draped in large, white linen sheets. Larkin felt awkward and faintly ridiculous in his. He had to keep a firm hold on the front of the damned thing in order to prevent it from sliding off. But Trimley somehow managed to resemble one of those statues of ancient Romans that the wealthy used to decorate their mansions. Larkin had made certain that a vast number of them were installed in the front hall of the fine, big house that he, himself, had purchased a few years ago.

“What about that gas geyser in the bath in the new wing?” He rose and began to prowl the small, tiled chamber. “Everyone knows they’re unpredictable.”

“The fire did not start in the bath.” Trimley sounded impatient. “I talked to every member of the staff who was there that night. They all agreed that there were two explosions and both occurred in the vicinity of the dining room.”

Larkin grunted. “Part of a scheme designed to steal the girls?”

“So it appears.”

“Bloody hell.” Larkin reached the tiled wall, turned and started back in the other direction. “No one even
saw
the girls and the teacher leave?”

Trimley shook his head. “It was the middle of the night and there was a great deal of smoke and confusion. A couple of men told me that they heard the sound of horses’ hooves at one point, but they both assumed that someone had freed the animals so that they could escape the flames.”

“Why in hell didn’t anyone see to the girls as soon as the fire started?” Larkin demanded. “My men knew that I considered them valuable.”

“Evidently Rimpton did tell the others that he was going to take care of the young ladies.” Trimley moved one hand in a dismissive gesture. “But he disappeared and never returned that night. The next day his body was found near some old storage sheds.”

“And no one even considered the possibility that the teacher and the girls had escaped until the following day?”

“At first it was assumed that they had all perished in the blaze.” Trimley shifted slightly on the bench, making himself more comfortable. “It was a reasonable enough conclusion under the circumstances. Given the enormous amount of smoking rubble and fallen timbers, it wasn’t easy to conduct a thorough search of the ashes.”

“Bloody hell.” Larkin felt the old, familiar hot bubbling sensation deep inside him. “All that careful planning wasted. The auction was only days off. I can’t believe it’s come to this.”

The old rage suddenly boiled up, threatening to choke him. He slammed a fist against the gleaming white-tiled wall.
“Bloody damn hell.”

That did not satisfy, so he picked up the jug of water that sat on a small table and hurled it into the corner.

The ceramic container exploded. The bits and pieces of broken pottery danced and rang on the tiles.

Instantly he felt calmer, back in control. But he was already regretting the outburst.

He took a deep breath and released it slowly, letting his blood cool. The occasional raw flashes of fury had afflicted him all his life. He could control them now when he chose to do so, but sometimes he let them sweep over him. Generally speaking, they made others nervous. He considered that a good thing. It never paid to have one’s employees and business associates get too comfortable.

But the elegant Mr. Trimley did not respond to such showy exhibitions of power the way others did. Larkin sensed that the outbursts elicited nothing but amused disdain in the arrogant bastard.

He tightened his grip on the sheet and swung around quite suddenly, trying to catch Trimley off guard, wanting to see if he could surprise a little fear in the man. But, as usual, there was nothing to be deciphered in his partner’s veiled expression.

“Everything depended on those four girls,” he muttered. “And now they’re gone, thanks to that damned teacher. Why in blazes did she do it?”

“We must assume that she developed some suspicions concerning the fate of her predecessor and concluded that her own life was in jeopardy,” Trimley responded calmly.

“That would explain why she fled the castle. But it doesn’t tell me why she took the girls with her. It makes no sense. She had to know that they would only slow her down. She must have realized that her odds of a successful escape would have been considerably improved without the added baggage of four young ladies.”

“Now that,” Trimley said softly, “is a very interesting question. I spent most of the journey back to London contemplating it.”

Larkin stopped and turned sharply. “You have some notion of what this is all about?”

“I agree with you that it seems less than rational for a woman who was in fear for her life to burden herself with four girls.” Trimley paused deliberately. “But I think that it is safe to say the teacher was not working alone.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“I do not believe that Miss Glade, clever though she may be, was the one who arranged to remove the young ladies from the castle.”

“She had help? One of the guards? Well, it isn’t the first time that I’ve been betrayed by a member of my own organization, but such things don’t happen often and that’s a fact. Everyone knows the penalty.”

“Not one of your people,” Trimley said. “I was able to get a bit of a description of him from the proprietors of the inn where he put up for the night with the teacher and the girls.” An intrigued expression darkened his eyes. “They described him as well spoken and well mannered. In short, a gentleman.”

“They’re certain this man was a gentleman?” Larkin asked. “Not just acting the part?”

Trimley quirked a brow. “Forgive me for pointing out that the role of gentleman is not an easy one to play unless one has been born into the part. In any event, it has been my experience that innkeepers, like shopkeepers, are invariably correct when it comes to judging the class of their customers. They have that much in common with you, Larkin, in that their livelihoods depend upon a certain degree of skill in that regard.”

Larkin willed himself to ignore that. Trimley considered him good
enough to associate with when it came to business affairs, but the bastard’s contempt for those he considered his social inferiors was never far below the surface.

“Did these innkeepers have any other useful information?”

“No. Only that the ladies and their escort were bound for London. I checked with the station master. He remembered the girls and their teacher quite well. They traveled first class.”

“What of this gentleman who accompanied them?” Larkin asked swiftly.

“Interestingly enough, the station master did not recall any male companion. He seems to have disappeared somewhere between the inn and the train.”

Larkin could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck. “Well, at least the man’s presence does explain a few things.”

“Most especially Rimpton’s crushed skull and Bonner’s concussion and broken arm,” Trimley said.

Larkin frowned. “What’s this? I thought you said that Rimpton died in the fire.”

“I said he died that night. But I was able to examine the body and I am quite certain that he was killed by human hand, not the flames.”

Larkin snorted. “No lady teacher could have done that. You’re right. She had help. The question is, what does the lady’s
gentleman
associate have in mind? Even if he is aware of the details of our plans, he can’t hope to duplicate them on his own. It took us months to make the arrangements for the auction.”

“There is no need for him to imitate us in order to achieve a profit,”
Trimley said. “You have a head for business, Larkin. What would you do if you found yourself in possession of certain commodities that you knew to be of great value to someone else?”

Larkin started to relax for the first time since he had gotten word of the loss of the girls. “I’d offer the former owner a chance to repurchase his missing valuables.”

“Precisely. I expect that, sooner or later, whoever took the girls will put out the word that he is ready to negotiate. And then we’ll have him.”

“Bloody hell. We can’t just sit around and wait for them to contact us. I’m Alexander Larkin. I don’t wait on the convenience of others.”

“Calm yourself, Larkin.” Trimley got up from the bench and walked toward the door. “The last thing we want to do is draw attention to ourselves. Sooner or later our gentleman thief will find a way to send word to you that he is prepared to do business.”

“I don’t take orders from you, Trimley.” He tightened one hand into a fist. “I’m going to turn the city upside down until I find those girls.”

“Suit yourself, but you will be wasting your time.”

“Why do you say that?”

Trimley paused at the door. “I would be the last to deny that you have excellent connections in certain quarters in London. But we both know that you do not go into respectable circles. And it appears that is where our man moves.”

Larkin went cold in spite of the heat.

Trimley smiled slightly. “Your crude approach has its uses, Larkin, but this situation requires a degree of finesse. Let me handle it. That was
one of the reasons you agreed to our partnership, if you will recall. I have connections in places where you will never be allowed to set foot.”

Trimley went out into the cold plunge room and closed the door.

Larkin stared at the door for a long time. That finished it, he decided. Trimley had been useful during the past year but enough was enough. When this business involving the four girls was concluded, he would see to it that the partnership was permanently dissolved.

Larkin rearranged his drooping sheet and thought about how he would handle the matter. Getting rid of a gentleman who moved in social circles required some planning, after all. When men from Trimley’s class expired in suspicious circumstances, the police were inclined to conduct serious investigations. The press got excited. Inquiries were made.

There had already been too many risky disappearances in this affair, he thought. The last thing he wanted to do was draw the attention of Scotland Yard.

Nevertheless, such things could be managed provided they were handled with great care. Trimley was wrong. The wall that separated respectable society from the other sort was not as impenetrable as he appeared to believe. Death could reach across any class barrier.

T
he Winslow Charity School for Girls was housed in a vast mansion. It seemed to Concordia that the building somehow managed to absorb every trace of the spring sunlight and render the brightness and warmth into cold, unrelenting night.

The office of the headmistress was of a piece with the rest of the place. It was steeped in an atmosphere of unrelenting gloom. The surroundings were well suited to Edith Pratt, the woman who sat behind the large desk.

The formidable Miss Pratt was not nearly as ancient as Hannah, Phoebe, Edwina and Theodora had led her to believe. Pratt was, in fact, only a few years older than herself—thirty at most.

She was not unattractive. Edith was tall and well proportioned with a full bosom, fine features, light brown hair and hazel eyes.

But whatever physical beauty Edith had possessed had long since been submerged beneath a grim veneer. It was obvious that Pratt was a woman who had been bitterly disappointed by life. Concordia
suspected that her chief ambition was to ensure that the students in her care learned to expect the same sad reality that Edith herself had discovered.

“My condolences on the loss of your husband, Mrs. Thompson,” Edith said.

She did not sound the least bit sympathetic, Concordia thought. If genuine compassion had ever flowed in Edith Pratt’s veins, it had been leached out of her years ago.

“Thank you, Miss Pratt.”

Concordia stole a quick look around the room from behind her black net veil. The walls were darkly paneled and quite bare of decoration, with the exception of two photographs and a framed plaque.

One of the photographs, predictably, showed the Queen. Victoria was dressed in the somber attire that she had adopted decades earlier following the death of her beloved Albert.

The second picture was of an expensively gowned, heavily bejeweled woman of some forty or forty-five years. Beneath the photograph the words
Mrs. Hoxton, Our Beloved Benefactress
were inscribed in elaborate gold script.

The plaque mounted behind the desk was headed “Golden Rules for Grateful Girls.” Beneath it was a daunting list of some twenty admonitions. Concordia read the first one.
A grateful girl is obedient.

She did not read any further.

Edith folded her hands on top of the desk and regarded her with an expression of polite inquiry.

“How can I be of service?” she asked.

“I have come upon a matter of great delicacy, Miss Pratt. It involves some revelations that were made in my late husband’s will. I hope that I can depend upon your professional discretion?”

“I have been a headmistress for many years, Mrs. Thompson. I am quite accustomed to dealing with delicate matters.”

“Yes, of course.” Concordia affected a deeply troubled sigh. “Forgive me. I am still attempting to recover from the shock, you see.”

“What shock?”

“It appears that unbeknownst to anyone else in the family, my husband fathered an illegitimate child a number of years ago.”

Edith made a
tut-tutting
sound. “Unfortunately, an all too common story, I’m afraid.”

“I realize that in your position here at Winslow you often encounter the results of that sort of masculine irresponsibility.”

“Men will be men, Mrs. Thompson.” Edith gave a small snort of disgust. “I fear there is little prospect of changing their basic nature. No, in my opinion, the only hope of reducing the number of illegitimate children in this world lies with women. They must be taught to practice restraint and self-discipline in all aspects of their lives, most particularly when it comes to the darker passions.”