My Favorite Thief (13 page)

“He never takes everything,” Constable Wilkinson reminded him. “That's part of how his thefts go undetected for so long. At first glance, it doesn't seem like anything is missing.”

“But if he was already throwing over furniture and making a great deal of noise looking for either the chest or the key, then he knew once he found the chest that there was no possibility of his visit going unnoticed. He might as well have emptied the entire box and tossed it on the floor. Instead he closed it up and carefully placed it back in the wardrobe, with all of Lady Pembroke's garments neatly folded on top of it once more. Why go to such trouble—especially when he knows the servants are coming and he has to hurry and get out?”

“Maybe he'd already nicked the necklace and put the box back, and then he knocked over the desk when Mr. Beale came with his pistol,” supplied Tom. “Maybe they had a bit of a scuffle before he stabbed him.”

“All of the servants have said that they first knew the house was being robbed because of a loud crashing sound coming from the upstairs. That was long before Mr. Beale arrived waving his pistol. Also, Mr. Beale was stabbed in the chest, and when you came in, which you say was just a moment after the pistol was fired, you found him lying on his back, by the doorway. If Mr. Beale came into the room and wrestled with the Dark Shadow over here, where the desk is, and then got stabbed, how did he come to be lying way over there by the doorway?”

“Maybe he got stabbed as he was trying to run away,” Constable Wilkins suggested.

“Then logic suggests he would have fallen on his front,” argued Lewis, “not his back.”

“Maybe he was staggerin' backward with the knife in him, an' then just fell back as well,” theorized Tom.

“There is no blood in any other part of the room other than by the doorway.”

“It's possible the blood hadn't leaked out enough to land on the floor until he got over there,” Constable Wilkins reflected.

Lewis clenched his jaw, resisting the impulse to raise his hands and massage his aching temples. It was either ridiculously late or ungodly early, depending on how one wanted to look at it. He was exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to go home, collapse on his bed, and get a couple of hours sleep. But the Dark Shadow had killed again, which meant sleep was out of the question. After he had finished his inspection there he would go directly to Scotland Yard and report to Chief Inspector Holloway, his superior officer.

Chief Inspector Holloway would not be pleased.

Until the murder of Lord Haywood several nights earlier, the newspapers had taken great pleasure in writing about the Dark Shadow as if he were some kind of romantic, almost heroic figure. They had delighted in his every move, reporting on his daring break-ins as if he were a character to be celebrated instead of reviled. They emphasized the fact that he only robbed the extravagantly wealthy. Some even suggested that he might actually use his stolen proceeds to help the poor, although there was no evidence to support this theory. That idea had immediately won over London's lower classes, who always enjoyed the antics of a good thief. They despised the rich anyway, so if someone was nipping a gaudy piece of jewelry here and there from them, that was fine entertainment. They also enjoyed the fact that the police seemed blatantly helpless to catch this exceptionally clever criminal.

All that had changed the night Lord Haywood was shot.

“Thank you for your time, Tom,” Lewis said, dismissing him again. “You know how to reach me if you think of anything else that might be helpful in this case.”

“Yes, sir.” Tom cast the room one last glance, shuddered, then hurried out the door.

“Constable Wilkins, I would like you and the other police officers here to finish searching every room in the house. Once you have done that, I want you to start knocking on doors. Ask every neighbor on the street if they saw or heard anything suspicious last night. Check all their windows and doors for signs of forced entry. It's possible he broke into another house near here and hid there a while after fleeing this home. Have a team of officers search the back gardens, laneways, and carriage houses of the surrounding area, looking for any signs of disturbance. I want to know about anything unusual, even if it's just a single crushed flower in a garden. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, Inspector. What shall I tell Lady Pembroke about her bedchamber? She is most upset about its condition, and has been asking when she can send up the servants to clean it.”

“Tell her I expect to be just a few more minutes. I'll come down and speak to her and his lordship once I have finished here.”

“Very good, sir.”

Lewis closed the door after him. Then he moved to the center of the room. His gaze swept slowly over the havoc-stricken bedchamber, methodically taking note of everything he saw. He stared at the shattered kerosene lamp lying amidst a clutter of kerosene-soaked writing paper, a ruined assortment of pens, jars, a broken ceramic figurine, and a spilled bottle of black ink. His gaze moved to the open window, where the Dark Shadow had escaped into the night without the benefit of either a mask or a cap. He studied the enormous, magnificently carved wardrobe, its two massive doors still yawning open. Then he stared at the mask, cap, and neatly embroidered handkerchief he had laid out on Lady Pembroke's bed. Finally, he looked at the ugly, rust-colored stain on the carpet.

He clenched his jaw, frustrated by the inconsistencies around him. This was the case that would make or break his career, he realized grimly. Since abduction and murder had become involved, the public was being whipped into a terrified frenzy by the newspapers, while the police force was being castigated as a bunch of buffoons. If he failed to capture the Dark Shadow quickly, he would be relegated to spending the rest of his career investigating linen thefts up in Camden Town. He had to find the bastard before he killed again.

He frowned as he looked at Lady Pembroke's immaculately arranged bed.

Lord Pembroke had told him that she had hidden the key to her jewelry chest beneath her pillow. The chest had been opened without force, so obviously the Dark Shadow had managed to find it. Yet the bed showed no sign of having been touched. If the Dark Shadow was heaving over furniture in frustration, why would he have been so careful as he searched Lady Pembroke's bed? Perhaps he had found the key, opened the chest, then returned the key to its hiding place and carefully arranged the covers once more. But that made no sense if he had already broken the desk. Confused by this, Lewis drew down the heavy crimson coverlet and lifted up the pillows, searching for the key.

It wasn't there.

Bemused, he pulled up the covers from the rest of the bed. Then he looked under the bed, beneath the mattress, and through the debris upon the carpet. He searched every surface and every drawer. He rifled through her wardrobe. Finally he turned to the jewelry box, which was now sitting upon the bureau.

Lord Pembroke had reported that he had found the box at the back of the wardrobe, exactly where Lady Pembroke had hidden it. The only difference was that it was unlocked.

Lewis knew the Dark Shadow typically left everything exactly as he had found it. But on that night he had knocked a desk over, either before or after he had found the key. Knowing servants were coming, he had not bothered to lock the chest as he returned it to the cupboard. He had, however, taken the time to cover it neatly beneath the garments that had been on it before.

That struck Lewis as odd.

What was more bizarre was that after rummaging through the bed and retrieving the key, he had proceeded to neatly make the bed up again.

If he hadn't yet knocked over the desk, why bother rearranging the bed when he knew he was going to momentarily return the key to its hiding place? And if he had knocked over the desk before finding the key, then why start fussing about arranging coverlets when he knew the servants were on their way?

Unable to make any sense of it, he picked up the handkerchief Wilkins had found. Could the Dark Shadow really have been so careless as to leave his monogrammed handkerchief lying on the ground? Lewis doubted it, but at that point, he had little else to go on.

He would begin by asking Lady Pembroke on what occasions she had recently worn her ruby necklace. Then he would contact the hosts of those parties and request their guest lists. That would enable him to determine if anyone bearing the last initial
B
had recently had the opportunity to admire Lady Pembroke's necklace.

He might not be able to arrest a man on the strength of a handkerchief, but he could certainly have him watched.

 

H
ARRISON STARED OUT THE WINDOW OF HIS STUDY
into the rain-drenched night, fighting the silken threads of pain filtering through his head.
Not tonight,
he commanded silently. He needed to think, and he couldn't think if he was sprawled on his bed in the dark, immobilized with pain. He raised his palms to his forehead and pressed hard, trying to squeeze the advancing pain out, or at least hold it at bay for a while. It wavered, not retreating, but not getting any worse either. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. No dizziness. No nausea. That was good. Maybe it wouldn't progress beyond a dull ache.

He could tolerate that.

He went to his desk and poured himself a brandy. He knew it might cloud his mind a little, but it would also dull the pain in his head, and at that moment that seemed more important. Besides, he wasn't going out anywhere. His scuffle with the Dark Shadow the previous evening and his subsequent crash to the ground as he escaped had left him stiff and sore. That, combined with the cut to his left hand and his throbbing, stitched-up shoulder, was making him feel every wretched minute of his forty years. He had thought he was getting too old for this sort of thing. Until his fight with the Shadow, he had not realized just how old he really was.

He took a swallow of brandy, disgusted with himself.

There was a hesitant rap upon his study door.

“Come in.”

“Forgive me, your lordship, for disturbing you,” apologized Telford, his butler, his expression sober. “But there is a young woman here to see you. A Miss Kent. She says it is a matter of some urgency.”

Harrison had wondered whether or not she would come. By early that evening all of London had had a chance to read about the Dark Shadow's latest robbery and murder in grisly detail. Miss Kent would have been horrified to learn how Lord Pembroke's butler had been killed as he bravely tried to protect Lady Pembroke's precious jewels from the infamous Dark Shadow. Harrison was amazed that Miss Kent had still sought him out, believing him to be a cold-blooded murderer.

Either she was extraordinarily stupid, or her need for five thousand pounds was even more desperate than he realized.

“Send Miss Kent to the drawing room, Telford,” Harrison instructed. “I'll see her there.”

“Unfortunately, Lady Bryden is using the drawing room at the moment.” Telford shifted uneasily on his feet before delicately adding: “I don't believe she is feeling well enough to receive Miss Kent.”

“What is she doing?”

“She believes she is having an argument with Lord Bryden, your father, my lord. At times she is rather loud.”

“I see. Did she eat anything this evening, Telford?”

“No, my lord. I set her place in the dining room, as usual, and as you have instructed, I also set one for your father. Lady Bryden appeared to be in fine spirits until I served the first course.”

“What happened?”

“She began to imagine she was having a disagreement with your father. Apparently, she believed he was refusing to eat, because he didn't like what was being served. Lady Bryden accused him of being far too set in his ways, and worried he might be insulting Mrs. Griffin. I tried to calm her by saying I would bring Lord Bryden something else more to his liking, but Lady Bryden would not hear of it and left the room. She has been alone in the drawing room arguing with him ever since.”

“What did you serve her, Telford?”

“Boiled breast of mutton and caper sauce. Mrs. Griffin assured me it was one of her specialties.”

“My father disliked mutton.”

Telford's expression fell. “Forgive me, sir. Had I known, I could have advised Mrs. Griffin to prepare something else. Mrs. Griffin is most anxious to please you, sir, and she thought she was making something that Lady Bryden would enjoy.”

“It's all right, Telford, neither you nor Mrs. Griffin could possibly have known. Kindly show Miss Kent in here, then go and ask Mrs. Griffin to prepare a tray for my mother of tea, toast, cheese, fruit, and a few slices of cold chicken or beef. Then tell my mother I will be up to see her shortly, and say that I'll be most displeased if she and my father are still arguing when I get there.”

“Yes, my lord.” He gave Harrison a small bow and hurried from the room.

He turned to the window and took another swallow of brandy, feeling unbearably tired. When his father died and Harrison had first inherited his title and the crushing responsibility that went with it, he had believed that if he could just hold on for a year or two, eventually it would get easier. But it never had. There were a few fleeting moments where things had seemed more bearable, at least from a financial point of view. But the exhausting weight of responsibility had never abated.

He had just come to accept there was no choice but to carry it.

“Miss Kent, my lord,” announced Telford, interrupting Harrison's thoughts as he ushered Charlotte into the study.

“Thank you, Telford. That will be all.”

His butler bowed and closed the door.

Charlotte seemed smaller and more fragile to Harrison as he turned to look at her. Her face was grave and pale, her green-and-gold eyes wide and haunted. There was an almost ethereal quality to her, like a lovely wisp of snow that would disintegrate the instant it touched anything of substance. Fear of him had reduced her to this condition, he realized. On the night she had stumbled upon him in Lord Chadwick's home, she had exuded an extraordinary strength and will as she had helped him to escape. Now she was all but trembling in his presence. He had hoped that with what little she knew of him, she might have held some fragment of faith that he was not a murderer. But the dread in her eyes told him otherwise.