On a Desert Shore (2 page)

In some ways he was, Chase reflected, which was one reason why Chase had always liked him. They'd met soon after Bow Street had employed Chase in '01. Packet had already been known as a minor offender, and Chase had fully intended to see him arrested if he could. Instead they'd formed an association of sorts, which Chase had often found useful in his work when Packet ferreted out stray morsels for him. Besides being good company for a tavern carouse, Packet was a positive genius at reading men's characters, at understanding human motive and duplicity. Duplicity, Chase reflected, was Packet's specialty, and on that thought he leaned back, stretching out his booted feet, purposely avoiding the thief's eager look.

“Rather a coincidence, isn't it,” he said conversationally, “you happen to be employed by the same gentleman who summoned me here today for reasons unknown? And this gentleman so well informed about my naval career and my recent problems at Bow Street? Now, who would know about that?”

Packet gave his hoarse laugh. “You told me yourself when you was half seas over one night. Well, as drunk as you ever gets.”

“That's right I did. I see you've put my information to good use.”

Packet's gaze flittered away and came back. “Garrod's got a job for you, Chase.” When no reply was forthcoming, he went on. “Mind, I can't tell you exactly what it is, only it's something to do with his daughter. Got her for sale in the Marriage Mart, and let me tell you there's plenty lining up to take a crack, what with her governor's brass. But I hear she ain't quite the thing, somehow. Strange little bird.” He tapped his forehead.

“Daughter? What's wrong with her?”

“Queers me. Rumor was she was all set to marry her cousin, Garrod's heir. But the match has gone sour, and they say Garrod ain't best pleased with his heir neither.” He added succinctly, “Debts.” He flicked a glance at Chase, as if to discover whether dropping further tidbits might sweeten the atmosphere between them.

“Go on.”

“Ain't got much more, except that everyone is on pins and needles wanting to know how Garrod means to leave his blunt. Likes to keep them jumping, which strikes me as a risky game. Not a happy family, you might say. As for that girl—I caught a peep at her one time when she come out of a fancy party—a hunted rabbit. Traffic weren't moving. The folk in the street a-gaping at her papa's carriage, a huge thing, all over gilt with fancy paintings on the panels. ‘Emblematic figures of Europe, Asia, Africa, and America,' or some such rot. You ain't never seen nothing like it, let me tell
you
.”

“This girl have a mother?”

“Not one she owns to in polite company. Don't seem quite civilized, if you ask me.”

“She is Garrod's natural daughter?”

“You might say that.” Packet pursed his lips and made a little tsk of disapproval. “The mother was a slave on one of Garrod's plantations. He set her free. Left her behind in Jamaica and brought the girl over here when she was this high.” The arm he extended from his hip ended in delicate fingers with dirt caked under the nails.

Digesting this, Chase chose not to be sidetracked. “None of which explains why you blabbed your mouth about me or how Garrod found you in the first place. It doesn't fit.” He frowned.

“Why get your dander up? You've helped me out now and again, and here's me returning the favor. I put a word in his ear, see, and not just for you but for that gentry-mort friend of yours.”

Chase drained his grog and stood up to rest his hands on Packet's slight shoulders, pressing hard and squeezing. “I must be touched in the head too, for I can't recall why I ever kept company with you. You mean Mrs. Wolfe? What has she to say to this?”

Packet peered up at him owlishly. “Don't be like that, Chase. I thought you'd be glad to see me on the square.”

“Mrs. Wolfe?” said Chase, squeezing harder.

“I told you. I done a turn for her. You told me she ain't been in high fettle since that husband of hers took hisself off. How's a poor female to get her bread, I ask you? All I done is show Mr. Garrod that pamphlet she wrote, and he recalled the stories about her in the papers. He thought of the rest.”

Having endured a brush with notoriety and a royal scandal, Chase's friend Penelope Wolfe had fought back by publishing a pamphlet to set the record straight about her father's dealings with a certain courtesan and the son they had conceived—Penelope's brother Lewis. Chase thought the pamphlet well done, but he wouldn't tell her that. He knew she had needed the money, a woman alone with a daughter to raise and now a young brother to establish in a career. She had defended Chase's conduct in the last inquiry, attacking his critics.

Penelope had written a new kind of account of a sensational murder—one that sought to do more than raise the hairs on the back of readers' necks, one that tried to locate the heart of a crime in understandably human motives. And, as a result, she had made powerful enemies in government and the press. But, knowing her, Chase feared that the success of this pamphlet would inspire her to write others that would only draw her further into hazardous territory. She would look at him with those brown eyes and insist that justice had been denied, or that a truth had been hidden that only she with his help could uncover. He doubted whether their other friend Edward Buckler could restrain her either.

Before Chase could elicit more, Garrod entered the room. Catching sight of Packet, he rapped out, “Get back to work, you fool. Do you want to be seen talking to him? You'd be no use to me anymore.” His face had darkened.

“Sir.” Packet shook off the grip on his shoulders, winked at Chase, and was gone.

“Will you have a seat, Mr. Chase?” The color staining Garrod's cheeks faded, and he was again the polished gentleman. He conducted Chase into a comfortably furnished office.

As they arranged themselves in two armchairs, Chase considered telling Garrod something of Packet's history, then rejected the idea. It was nothing to him, after all, if the West India Company chose to employ a thief, and if Packet was to be believed, Garrod knew what he was about. “You've suffered some thefts here?” he ventured instead.

Garrod stiffened. “We've struck at the root of the plunder, but must be ever vigilant. Terrible, the losses we once endured. Brazen females used to come on the quays and carry off sugar and coffee in their aprons. We've nothing like that to contend with these days.”

“You yourself were a prime mover behind the construction of these docks? I am told they were financed through private subscriptions.”

“I got involved soon after I returned from abroad. Now you've seen what English ingenuity, the advancement of science, and the public spirit of men can accomplish.”

It was more than time to push Garrod to the point. Chase said, “I'm told you require my services. It was Packet who mentioned my name to you?”

“True enough. He showed me a story in the newspaper about you and Mrs. Wolfe. She has caught my imagination, you know. I wholeheartedly admired your defense of her—true chivalry on the part of you and that barrister who won her brother his freedom.” He slanted a quick look at Chase. “I understand Mrs. Wolfe's husband is still playing least in sight?” His smile deepened.

Again, the man was well informed. Jeremy Wolfe had fled London to escape debtors' prison. Because the sudden gleam in the merchant's eyes when he pronounced Penelope's name raised Chase's hackles, he changed the subject. “You are a busy man, Mr. Garrod, as am I. Tell me about your problem.”

Garrod took the watch from his fob pocket and sat fingering the chain. He took a few breaths and rubbed his chin. At length he said, “Your friend Packet will have told you something of my daughter's history? She has everything, Chase. Scores of beautiful gowns, jewels, fashionable parties, a phaeton to tool around the park, and yet she spends her days hiding in her room. I had thought her future assured but now—”

“A betrothal?”

“To her cousin Ned. Or to any one of the young sparks I've paraded in front of her. As I said, she has everything, but I've never seen a girl so miserable.”

Inhaling another sharp breath, Garrod continued. “Her chaperone—the daughter of an earl to whom I paid an exorbitant fee, mind you—couldn't control the girl. Why, Ned's sister Beatrice took to the fashionable set far better for all she is above thirty! Marina's behavior caused comment. She either lurked in the corners at parties or hid in some ladies' withdrawing room until time to go home. I thanked God when it was over.”

“Perhaps she is shy or homesick,” said Chase, his interest caught. “She was born in Jamaica, sir?”

“This is her home. Marina has been properly educated to fill her station. She remembers nothing of her life on the island.”

Chase was unconvinced. The past did not release its hold so easily. He wondered if Miss Garrod resembled her mother and whether this resemblance set her apart in English society. He wondered too at the closed expression on Garrod's face when speaking of his child. It seemed unnatural somehow. “Are you sure of that? It may be she misses a mother's care.”

Garrod recoiled, closing his eyes. He opened them again and said, “Do you believe me when I say I loved her mother and desire only what will make our daughter happy? Do you believe me, sir?” Urgency vibrated in his voice, yet Chase thought the man exaggerated for effect.

“If it is not Miss Garrod's past, her troubles must be of more recent date.”

Garrod pressed one thick finger against his cheek and studied Chase with a hooded gaze. “You might say Marina suffers from a delusion.”

“A strong word, sir.”

“Well, yes. You will laugh,” warned Garrod and laughed bitterly himself. “This delusion has gained a powerful hold on her mind. She's said very little to me, but I am told she fears…a curse.”

Chase felt a chill pass over him. The ordinary office faded away, and he leaned forward. “Curse?” he demanded.

“A young girl's fancy, nothing more, but I must be sure.” Garrod's eyes wandered to the window through which could be seen the looming hulks of the cranes, tiny boats trailing toward the dock, and a glimpse of brilliant sky. He was silent for a moment, as if seeking the right words.

Then he said, “I'm worried, Chase. Marina claims someone has been playing tricks on her. One of her favorite shawls was slashed with a knife. An expensive trinket, a ring I had given her, vanished, then suddenly reappeared in her jewelry box. She said she saw a light in the garden at night, but we found no one. She put some dirt and other rubbish in Ned's bed and refused to explain why. Worse, she has taken to wandering in her sleep. Once we could not find her for several hours. We were about to call in the authorities and damn the scandal when she turned up, wet through from the rain and sobbing as though her heart would break. We've been at our wits' end with the girl. None of us can understand why she would behave this way and invent such stories.”

“What's your theory?”

“I don't know. To make herself important? My sister Anne says that Marina doesn't want to be married, so perhaps that accounts for it.”

“Surely Miss Garrod is very young? Why not wait a few years until she is more mature? Allow her to outgrow her fancies.”

Garrod shook his head. “I'm getting on in years. I intend to leave my affairs in good order. I've labored too long, and there will be no playing fast and loose with my fortune after I am gone. And yet I'm afraid I've been hasty and don't wish to be unfair to anyone. I want to see my daughter honorably wed—and so I've told Ned. He's as bad as the rest at managing the business. No, what she needs is a devoted husband to look after her. This is particularly true for a girl like Marina, whose background is…unusual.”

Unusual? She was the daughter of a slave, carrying the blood of Africa in her veins, and the potential heiress to vast wealth. She'd been born into slavery, though no doubt she'd been formally manumitted. She would be seen as foreign—not English. There were some who might consider Garrod himself to be something less than an English gentleman with his flamboyant displays of wealth, his whiff of the exotic—especially now that many thought the institution of slavery a blot on the national character. It may be that some would not be willing to overlook his daughter's heritage, no matter how large a dowry Miss Garrod could boast.

“Let's settle this.” Garrod reached into his pocket for a bank draft, which he held out imperiously. “Can you start tonight?”

Chase ignored the outstretched hand. “There is one possibility we have not discussed, which is that Miss Garrod has told you the truth. You're afraid this may be so, and that's the reason you called me here today. Otherwise, you would consult a priest or a doctor rather than a police officer. I am hardly the best person to play nursemaid to a young girl. Why did you choose me, sir?”

“Joanna.” The name dropped from Garrod's lips, almost unwillingly. “You knew her.”

Astonishment held Chase speechless. Finally, when he had his emotion under control, he said evenly, “The nurse from Port Royal.” His thoughts whirled in chaos for a moment, and then he understood. Good Lord, Garrod's daughter must be the crying baby all grown up. “Joanna is Miss Garrod's mother?”

He nodded. “When I went to say goodbye to her before we left the island, she told me about saving your life. She was quite taken with you and so pleased you'd survived. All these years later I thought of you when Marina's troubles started. I had seen your name in a newspaper article, which told me the Bow Street men can be found at the Brown Bear tavern. So I went in search of you. You weren't there—”

“But Packet was.” Chase shook his head in disbelief. “Why didn't he tell me?”

“I bade him keep quiet. I had changed my mind. Marina was about to have her season, and I feared the gossips would get wind of my having hired a Runner. So I decided to wait. I thought she would be so distracted by her pleasures that she'd forget her worries. I was wrong.”