No Place for a Lady (16 page)

“No, he went to the House. I’d best go and tell him.”

“It is a matter of particular concern to Mr. Alger?” I asked, with a pinched expression.

“He’d like to know,” Sharkey replied discreetly.

“Then by all means, tell him.” I noticed Algernon’s interest was so keen that Sharkey had actually gone to the shop to escort Mrs. Clarke home, as if he were her bodyguard.

I was about to challenge Sharkey on the subject of wine when the front door opened, and Algernon came in. He looked at me; he looked at Sharkey— and apparently read our minds. “What is wrong?” he demanded.

“Mrs. Clarke is late getting home, and Mr. Sharkey thought you should know,” I said, with a look of cool disdain. I had just managed to add two and two—and came up with the conclusion that Mrs. Clarke was the woman Sharkey was following for Algernon. My disdain was wasted on Algernon. He did not even notice it.

He looked like a wild man. “You were supposed to watch her!” he said to Sharkey.

“She never came out of the shop tonight, Algie. I waited a quarter of an hour, then went to the door and saw an OUT OF BUSINESS sign posted. A neighbor said it had been closed all afternoon, yet Anne went there this morning and never came home.”

“Oh, God! Let me think!” It was a howl of outrage. I knew then that Mrs. Clarke was more than a bit of muslin for him. He was truly in love with her. My heart died a little, but I was relieved that he had not made a plaything of the young widow. At least he was not that bad. Algernon shaded his eyes with his open hand and began walking in little circles, muttering to himself.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked, for I truly wanted to ease his pain if I could.

Algernon looked up. “Has Vivaldi come home?”

“I don’t know. I did not see him.”

“Run up and knock at his door, Sharkey,” Algernon said. “Make some excuse—you want to borrow some tea or milk.” Sharkey was off like an arrow.

Algernon said to me, “Did you happen to mention to Vivaldi that Anne had that French book in her room?”

“No! Why would I do that?”

“No, of course you would not,” he said distractedly.

“Algie, what is going on? What has Vivaldi to do with it?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps nothing, but he does keep a very close eye on her.”

“He wouldn’t harm her. He is very fond of her.”

Sharkey came bucketing downstairs, red in the face and out of breath. “He doesn’t answer.”

“We’ve got to get into his room,” Algernon said. “He might have left some clue.
Do you have a key for his room, Cathy?”

“I cannot let you into his room.”

“This is a matter of life and death. Give me the key,” he said through clenched jaws.

I got the key, but I went up with him to see he did not harm Vivaldi’s room. I felt extremely guilty—and had no idea what excuse I would make if Vivaldi came home and caught us rooting through his private belongings. There was a sense of unreality about the whole affair. “A matter of life and death,” Algie had said, and his grim manner told me it was no idle remark.

“What are we looking for?” I asked, as Sharkey and Algie moved around the room, looking in corners and opening drawers.

“I don’t know,” was Algie’s unhelpful reply.

I saw a stack of classical books on the desk and picked one up. My fingers came away dusty. The whole desk was covered in a film of dust. He never used it at all. I opened the book and saw the stamp of a used bookstore. The books were all stamped with the same mark. He had picked up a bunch of used books to lend credence to his role of scholar. I pointed it out to Algernon. “He is not a scholar at all, is he?” I said.

“He might have been, once.”

“What is he now? What is he doing here, on Wild Street?”

“Keeping an eye on Anne.”

Sharkey called over his shoulder, “Take a look at this, Algie.”

We both darted over to see what he had found. It was a passbook for a bank. Large sums of money, thousands of pounds, had been deposited and taken out again over the past six months.

“That’s that then,” Algernon said grimly. “He’s got her. Keep looking. We’ll tackle him when he comes back and beat the truth out of him.”

The men kept searching the desk, opening letters and glancing through them. Not knowing what we were looking for, I went to the bedroom. I noticed right away that it did not have the air of an occupied room. There was nothing on the toilet table, no brushes or combs. I went to the dresser and drew out the top drawer. It was empty, as were the others. Next I tried the clothespress. Vivaldi had removed every stitch of his clothing. It was empty.

I called into the parlor, “Come and look at this, Algie. I don’t think Professor Vivaldi is coming back.”

He turned and hurried across the floor to the bedchamber. “He’s taken everything away,” I said. “When did he do it? He did not leave with a trunk this morning.”

“He didn’t have much,” Starkey said. “Always wore the same clothes.”

“He must have had some linens at least,” I said, and gave a gasp as I remembered that box of books. I told them about it.

“Did you happen to notice the address?” Algernon asked.

“There was no address. I mentioned it to the tranter. He said Vivaldi had told him where it was to go, but I didn’t ask.”

“What did the driver look like?” Algernon asked, or barked rather, for he was extremely upset.

“He wore a cap over his eyes. He was about forty or thereabouts, with an average sort of build. There was nothing to single him out from a thousand other workmen.

“Did you happen to notice anything about the carriage?” Sharkey asked.

“I hardly glanced at it, I fear. I did notice that it was already well loaded. It had big cardboard cartons on it. There was something printed on them.”

“What? What were the words?”

“It wasn’t whole words. Just letters, and I think some numbers. I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“Would the letters be A-D-L?” Sharkey asked.

“Yes! That’s right. How did you know?”

“I’ve seen them before,” he said, with a sly smile. Then he said to Algie, “They stand for Adele D. Lalonde. It’s how all her goods for the shop are marked. She has smuggled silk shipped up from Kent, picks it up at the dock. Vivaldi used the same wagon to take away his belongings.”

“That is odd. Surely it was not a coincidence,” I said.

The men had forgotten I was there. They looked surprised when they turned and saw me, listening with both ears perked. “Algie, what is going on? Is Mrs. Clarke in danger?”

“She might very well be dead by now,” he replied grimly. “Come on, Sharkey. I’ll need your skills to break into the shop.”

On this menacing speech they tore out of the flat. I heard them clattering down the stairs as I extinguished the candles and locked the door. Mrs. Clarke had been kidnapped. Her life was in danger, and presumably Algernon and Sharkey were going to Lalonde’s Modiste Shop to try to rescue her. But I hadn’t the least notion why anyone would kidnap a harmless young widow.

Chapter Fourteen

I went downstairs, confused and frightened, to find Miss Thackery, confused and angry, waiting for me.

“What on earth is going on, Catherine?” she demanded. I am only Catherine at moments of high drama, or when in disgrace. “Sharkey and Mr. Alger galloping through the house like a pair of colts, and you leaving your dinner half eaten—” Something in my face told her she was dealing with a more serious issue than poor manners. “What is it? What is the matter?” she demanded.

I drew her back into the dining room and closed the door. “Mrs. Clarke is missing,” I said. “She did not come home from work. Algie thinks Professor Vivaldi has abducted her. Vivaldi has emptied his room and left.”

“Good God!” she said, clutching at her heart. “Abducted that nice Mrs. Clarke! Are you sure it is not Mr. Butler who has her? It might be a runaway match.”

“You are still thinking in terms of polite society, Miss Thackery. There is nothing to stop her from marrying Butler if she wishes. This is Wild Street. She has been abducted.”

I told her the little I knew, and when she had digested that, we were reduced to speculation.

“Why would Vivaldi do such a thing? He never behaved like a satyr. You don’t think he will harm her? You know what I mean ... rape.” The last word was a shiver of fear.

“Algie thinks she might already be dead,” I said, and felt not only sorry and angry but guilty as well, for having traduced the woman.

I no longer thought she was Algie’s mistress. Whatever was going on, it was not that. That was not why Sharkey followed her. It was to prevent her being kidnapped. And Mademoiselle Lalonde’s shop was involved somehow.

We had a glass of wine to calm our nerves as we discussed the matter. I told Miss Thackery my suspicions, omitting any mention of a possible affair between the widow and Algernon. We tried to make sense of it, but it seemed a senseless business. She had no money, so it was not a kidnapping to hold her to ransom. What could a young widow be doing that would put her life in jeopardy? Her son meant the world to her; she would not endanger herself when Jamie depended on her.

“I was just thinking,” Miss Thackery said, “that shop where she works, there must be Frenchies there, eh? The woman who runs it is Mademoiselle Lalonde. Could it have anything to do with spying? They say in the journals that London is full of French spies. She might be induced to do it, because of her husband being killed by the French. A sort of revenge. But Mrs. Clarke does not even speak French. I don’t see how she could be learning anything there, unless she is stealing letters, or some such thing.”

I thought of that French novel by her bed, and her insistence the first time we met that she did not speak French. She obviously did, but did not want anyone to know it. The French staff and customers at Lalonde’s would speak freely in front of her if they thought she could not understand them. “I think she does speak French, or read it at least,” I said, and mentioned the French novel as evidence.

“You never told me that, Cathy.”

“It did not seem important.”

“And Algernon is in on it, you think? I am surprised he would put that poor girl in such jeopardy.”

“Let us not judge him too harshly until we know all the facts.” I had learned one lesson from this experience at least.

Miss Thackery’s next notion was that Wild Street was too treacherous for such greenheads as us, and we must remove to a hotel at once.

“We might be able to help in some way,” I countered. “I shall stay, but if you—”

“It was you I was thinking of, Cathy. No one would harm an old lady like me.”

We finished our wine and went to the saloon to await news. It seemed a very long time before Algernon and Sharkey returned—alone. I went darting to the saloon door to ask if they had found her. Their grim faces made me fear they had discovered her corpse, but it was not quite that bad.

“No one was at the shop. Sharkey got the back door open for us,” Algie said vaguely. I assumed breaking into locked houses was no new thing for Sharkey. “Anne’s bonnet and pelisse were gone, but she had left her reticule behind, so she had been there all right.”

Sharkey was carrying her black patent bag. As he held it out to show us, there was a gasp of horror. Turning, we saw Miss Lemon in the doorway. “That is her reticule!” she said, rushing forward. “Mr. Alger ... have you found her?”

“Not yet, Miss Lemon,” he said quietly, “but we shan’t stop until we do.”

“She is dead! I know it. Oh, I told her she should not do it! It was too dangerous.”

Algie hurried forward to speak quietly to her, with his back to us to shield his words. I realized that Miss Lemon knew precisely what her mistress was up to. I felt that Algernon had hired her to help protect Mrs. Clarke. They spoke for a moment, then asked for the reticule. They searched it for clues, but apparently found nothing. When Miss Lemon went back upstairs to watch Jamie, she took the reticule with her.

Algie turned to me. “Vivaldi has not returned, of course?”

“No, and he won’t. Algie, have you no idea at all where she can be?” He looked at me and Miss Thackery uncertainly, as if he would like to take us into his confidence.

“We know what is going on,” I said. “Mrs. Lalonde’s shop was some sort of French spy center, and Mrs. Clarke was spying on them.”

“So you figured it out. Well, it is true. Anne never told them that she speaks French. They assumed she did not—and used to discuss their business in front of her from time to time. She soon realized they were spies and came to Whitehall to volunteer her services. We wanted her to quit the job. We would send in an older, more experienced woman to take over. Mrs. Clarke would not hear of it. She put us on to a few things.”

“Did they ever mention any other place—one of their homes or whatnot—where they might have taken her?”

“There was only Mademoiselle, who is in fact Madame Lalonde, and her husband, Alfonse Lalonde, Or at least they lived together as man and wife. He handled the deliveries and accounts and so on. Madame Lalonde did the designing and fitting; Anne helped with the sewing. The Lalondes lived above the shop. It is empty as well.”

“Then you have no idea where she might be?”

“Not at the moment, but we shan’t give up. I know a few cafes where the Frenchies hang out in the evenings. Sharkey has been helping me. There is one club where Alfonse goes fairly regularly. He might be there, and if not, Sharkey can direct us to a few of his close friends. I’ll haul them off for questioning.”

“Why do you think they abducted her at this time, if she has been there six months without suspicion?”

He replied, “Anne thought they were becoming suspicious of her. The last information she brought me was a false clue. I think they were testing her. Alfonse was supposed to be meeting a contact at Hyde Park at eleven o’clock at night. We know they are getting information from someone at the Horse Guards, an English traitor. Naturally we are eager to discover who he is. I went along to try to see the contact, but he never came. I don’t think Alfonse saw me, but perhaps they had another man looking out for me. If I was seen, then they know that Anne tipped me off. She was certain they did not know she spoke French, but I fear Vivaldi tumbled to it somehow. That is why he moved in here, to watch her.”