The Arnifour Affair (14 page)

“I'll bet. What's the name of the ship?”

“
Ilya Petrovina.
But is too late.”

“It's never too late. I'm bloody British, we don't believe in failure. Nine hundred years of squabbling royals have taught us that much.” He leaned directly over Mr. Harlacheva and twitched the hand wielding the knife just slightly, but it was enough to make the Bulgarian release a fresh torrent of sweat. “We shall take our leave now.” Colin spoke slowly. “And you will take your leave of this kingdom.” I saw his hand twist almost imperceptibly and thought for a moment Mr. Harlacheva was going to swoon. “And should I
ever
see your face in this city again, I shall make good my threat by whittling pendants of your bits. Do you understand?”

The man blinked his eyes and I realized he was too afraid to speak.

“Excellent.”

It took only a second more for Colin to move his hand away and spring to his feet. Vitosha Harlacheva scrambled to cover himself as best he could, the color slowly returning to his face. He looked beaten, desperate, and I should have recognized that fact sooner than I did, but I was unnerved myself and didn't realize what was bound to happen.

Colin sneered as he started for the door, but before I could even begin to follow, Vitosha Harlacheva leapt to his feet and threw himself fully at Colin's back, colliding hard and sending the two of them careening into the nearest wall. I threw myself forward to try to pull the burly man off Colin, but he'd already half-twisted around, and then I heard Mr. Harlacheva cry out, and just that fast it was over.

The bearish man fell to the floor like a gutted fish, his hands covering his exposed crotch as a river of blood flowed through his fingers. It took another moment before I spotted the small dark lump of fuzzy flesh on the floor near Colin's shoe and realized what it was.

“Come on!” he barked at me.

I didn't need to be told twice as I hopped over the man and fled out the door, slamming it shut behind me. We were well down the hallway when he suddenly barked at me, “Put your handkerchief over your mouth!” doing so himself.

I heard the drumbeat of quickly approaching men as I clutched my kerchief to my mouth and nose just as the security officer came jogging around the far corner with three men on his heels. They looked wary and not at all happy when they spotted us. “Vat is happening?” The officer slowed down, staring at our handkerchiefs.

“It's bad.” Colin kept up a brisk pace, forcing the man and his troops to fall in behind to hear what he had to say. “His flesh is dying. Falling away. You mustn't touch him or go near him. Stay away. We're going to get help.”

“But ze ambassador . . .”

“The ambassador will be fine!”
Colin shouted. “Just keep everybody away from him until we get back.”

“Yes . . . yes, of course.”

The officer and his soldiers gradually slowed as we bolted back out to the foyer. The receptionist looked startled as we rushed out, handkerchiefs pressed tight against our faces. “Too much cologne,” Colin muttered as he tucked his away. “Nasty business.”

“Nasty,” I repeated absently, already vexed about how we were ever going to stop the
Ilya Petrovina
from reaching St. Petersburg.

CHAPTER 21

T
he sky was as dark as pitch, a layer of brooding clouds obscuring all signs of the moon and stars. The storm of the night before, the night spent grilling the vile Vitosha Harlacheva, was returning. It was only a matter of when.

Colin and I were sitting deep within the confines of a hansom cab. We had a blanket across our legs and my collar was turned up, but even so, the night's incessant cold was beginning to worm its way through to my flesh. Colin's right hand was bare as he absently spun a crown through his fingers, and I couldn't imagine how the metal wasn't freezing his skin. We'd been sitting like this, well back in the thickets down the road from the Arnifour estate, for over an hour. I couldn't imagine how the driver was tolerating the dense chill from his perch above us. We would need to slip him an extra wage at the end of the evening.

“How long do we have to sit here?” I asked, fearing that he meant to spend the whole of the night. “It's just that I'm worried we might get a return communiqué from the Foreign Ministry Office tonight . . . ,” I started to say, but I could see by the look he flicked at me that he knew better.

“Let's give it another ten minutes and then we'll call it a night. Given the storm that's coming on I doubt any reasonable person would be going anywhere, including Victor Heffernan.”

“Well, that's a relief,” I leaned against him, “because I'm freezing.”

“Me too,” he sighed, finally shoving the coin into his pocket and slipping on his glove. “Besides, we have a previous engagement.”

“A previous engagement?”

“Indeed. We're due at the Roynton estate at half past nine this evening. The comely widow is expecting us.”

“Abigail Roynton? She invited us to her residence? Whatever for? And who says she's comely?”

He laughed. “I'm guessing she would have to be, given her ability to attract both Arnifour men.”

“Any woman with a bit of money and a reserve of spirits could attract the Arnifour men.”

“You have a point.”

“Why would she contact us?”

“Actually, I sent her a message this morning informing her of our investigation. I told her we hoped she might be able to offer some insight. Her answer came as we were leaving tonight—she said she'd be charmed.”

“Charmed? Seems an odd word given we're conducting a murder investigation.”

“But you forget,” he arched an eyebrow, “she is a scorned woman. Remember what Warren Vandemier said about her being recently replaced in the Earl's affections.”

“Do you really put much stock in what
he
says? He hardly seems a reliable source.”

“True. But ask yourself: Who among that coterie of character witnesses is any better? Should we really dismiss his word any quicker than that of the Earl's family or staff?” I had to concede that he had a point. He yanked out his watch and glanced at it. “I do think that's enough for tonight,” he said as he rapped his free hand on the metal rib of the cab's top.

“And what about Victor? Varcoe's got a dragnet across this whole area and I told you there was a photograph of Nathaniel in the
Times
today. It all but accused him of the killings. If he's spotted he's liable to be lynched without a second thought.”

“I've got some lads who'll take over for us. Not to worry.
Hello?
” he called out again. “We'd like to go to the second address, please.”

“Aye!” the man shouted back, snapping his crop at the lone horse and guiding us out of the thicket.

“We'll let the boys fill in for the rest of the night.” And sure enough I caught sight of a young man settling in by a hedge, his collar pulled up to cover the better part of his face as though he was hunkering down for a lengthy stay, which undoubtedly he was. I only hoped it wouldn't rain. “They'll come by in the morning for their stipend,” Colin added.

“I'll give them something extra if it rains.” They would earn their money this night, but at least we were keeping them out of their usual mischief for one evening.

“Unless Victor makes a move to go to Nathaniel tonight we're going to have to stop by tomorrow and apply more pressure. He's got to do something before that incompetent inspector blunders onto the boy. They're as likely to shoot him as arrest him. They like nothing more than to tidy up a case—damn the details.”

Our cab passed beneath the imposing gates of the Roynton estate, quite literally the next home over from the Arnifours', if some considerable distance away. Given the increasing moodiness of the night sky with its dense scent of rain, I was grateful we made good time.

The horse clacked down the cobbled drive through a forest of trees that led along a sharp curve before finally revealing a glimpse of the house. The difference between this home and the Arnifours' was startling. It wasn't simply the architecture, the Roynton estate having been built in the style of a French château with four rounded turrets topped by steep pointed roofs of black slate delineating the corners of the palatial structure. No. What immediately struck me was that every one of the scores of windows dotting the massive stone-block façade was ablaze with light, making it look as though the house must surely be filled with a thousand people. Even the half-moon forecourt hugging the face of the building was lined with gas torchieres that broke the night's austerity with their warm glow. And the building was immaculate, from its cream-colored walls rising four stories without a mar to the cement spiraled colonnades encasing the front doors and large paned windows stretching across the entirety of the ground floor. The Roynton residence was precisely tended and full of life. It was, in effect, the antithesis of the Arnifours'.

The cab came to a gradual stop in the forecourt.

“We shouldn't be long,” Colin said as we climbed out. “A couple of hours at the most.”

“Right then. I'll be waitin' under the portico if it starts ta rain. Just give us a whistle when yer ready.”

“Fine.” The cab clattered off to the side of the building as we climbed the half-dozen steps to the expansive porch. “It would seem the widow must have something against the dark, as she clearly keeps her staff busy banishing it from her home,” Colin said as he grabbed one of the knockers, a great brass lion's head with a ring clutched in its teeth, and heaved it. In less time than it had taken us to climb the steps, the doors swung wide to reveal an elegantly dressed white-haired gentleman with the stiff manner and regard of one of the Queen's own staff.

“Mr. Pendragon.” He nodded at Colin before throwing me the usual vacant stare. “And guest,” he added.

“Ethan Pruitt,” Colin corrected with a nod to me, but offering no further explanation.

“Madame is expecting you,” he answered blithely before ushering us inside and taking a careful moment to firmly bolt the doors behind us. I couldn't help wondering if that wasn't a habit put in place in light of the recent murders at the Arnifours'. “If you would follow me, please.”

The man's face remained unreadable as he led us through the foyer where a massive double-spiraled staircase wound in and out of itself all the way up the full four stories. Yet, as is so often the case when Colin and I are shown in, we were deposited in a library filled with leather-bound books, overstuffed furniture, and a lifetime of collectibles. In this case the collection consisted of tiny porcelain figurines placed on every conceivable surface, including the mantel top, which encased such a roaring fire that I was sure it was being fed by a steady stream of gas.

We were offered drinks, which we both declined, and with his duties thusly completed were shut inside the giant, yet somehow claustrophobic, room.

“He had about as much personality as Mrs. O'Keefe.” I snickered.

“If you'd grown up in an atmosphere as stuffy as this one,” he muttered as he began poking through the books, “you would find our Mrs. Behmoth a great deal more agreeable than you do.”

“I wasn't born on the streets, you know,” I shot back.

“I know. . . .” He waved me off. He knew I'd not been raised an urchin. That had come later. That had been my own doing.

“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting,” a smooth, husky voice filled the silence. I turned to find the storied widow, Abigail Roynton. I no longer recollect what I'd been expecting her to be like, but it was definitely not the radiant woman who stood at the door in the reflection of the warm, honeyed glow of the gas lamps. She was tall and slender, and held herself with a bearing that spoke of an upbringing above even that which Colin had known. Her face was round and open and as flawless as fresh-fallen snow, not simply the result of her age, which I knew to be in her middle thirties, but because she had clearly lived a pampered life free of anything more than a passing familiarity with the sun.

Her hair was a lush and curly black, spiraling down the sides of her face even though it was pulled up in back. She wore a dress of deep greens and gold, striking for both its simplicity and the way it accentuated her meticulously trim figure. The smile that parted her lips was warm and genuine, and I was taken aback to think that perhaps this might prove to be the one person of substance among the many schemers in the late Earl's life.

“You've not kept us waiting at all.” Colin nodded, a master of diplomacy when it served him.

She moved into the room as though she were floating above the floor. “I trust you both were offered a drink?”

“We were.” Colin waited for her to settle herself on a settee near the fireplace before following suit. “I apologize for having to bother you on such a matter as this. We're grateful you've consented to meet with us and shan't stay a moment longer than is necessary.”

“Don't trouble yourself. There is no bother. Your note mentioned the murders of the Earl and his niece, and as you can imagine, I am anxious to help in any way I can. I'm afraid I'm unlikely to be of much use, however, as I haven't seen either of them for some months.”

“Ah . . .” Colin rocked back in his chair. “Was it months, then?”

The door to the library opened delicately and a young woman in a black serving uniform eased into the room causing no more distraction than a slight wisp of air. She carried a silver tray upon which sat a split of champagne in a silver bucket and three crystal flutes. Drinks, it seemed, were destined to be a part of this interview.

“Perfection!” The lovely widow beamed as the girl set the tray on a side table beside her before uncorking the bottle and pouring a glass for each of us. The solemnness of our topic was momentarily banished with peculiar ease.

The drinks were served with Colin and me accepting ours as etiquette dictated. A silent toast was offered by means of thin smiles and bobbed heads as the serving girl retreated from the room, and only after we'd all had a sip did Colin persist in pushing ahead.

“Do you happen to recall the nature of your last visit with the Earl, Mrs. Roynton?”

“Do call me Abigail.” She flashed an easy smile. “I simply cannot bear undue ceremony.”

“Abigail then.” He returned his own generous grin. “Do you recall, Abigail, your last visit with the Earl?”

“I most certainly do.” She smirked at him as she paused long enough to take another languorous sip of champagne. “Samuel was bringing about an end to our trysts, and quite badly, I might add.”

“Trysts?!” Colin nearly spat the tug of champagne he'd been taking.

She threw her head back and laughed. “Come now, don't tell me I've shocked you?”

“I would say . . . ,” I spoke up, fearful that Colin might yet choke on the swallow he was still wrestling to contain, “. . . we're simply not used to such forthrightness.”

Abigail continued to laugh as she saluted me with her glass. “Yes, I would suppose not. Most people are too busy trying to bury the truth beneath a veneer of respectability. I can never figure the point in that. No matter what one does, the tongues will wag. It seems to me one should simply claim their reputation.”

“Honorable,” I said, and easy for a person of her means to say, I thought.

“Not really.” She winked, setting off her throaty laugh yet again.

“So the Earl—” Colin cut in, having finally managed to regain himself.

“You mean Samuel,” she corrected. “He had no claims to that title. One of his forebears did a turn for a balmy king and a hundred years later his progeny gets to wave around the pedigree. It doesn't sit well with me.”

Colin took another nip of champagne. “Samuel then,” he said with a bit less grace. “Samuel was ending your affair?”

“Affair?” She gazed off toward the fireplace for a moment, a distracted look on her face. “To me the word ‘affair' suggests foreign travel and clandestine meetings in romantic places. That's not what Samuel and I had. We had trysts. Right here. No travel, no romance, and only the barest nod to the idea of being clandestine. Really, Colin . . . ,” her voice dropped lower, hitting a timbre that threatened to raise the hairs on the back of my neck as she turned her considerable focus back on him, “. . . are you truly such a prig?”

He held her gaze as he cocked his head to one side. “Now there's something I've never been accused of.” He slid his eyes to me and I gave him a look that I hoped would warn him to say no more. I didn't particularly like this woman, her familiarity and unflinching zeal to speak her mind. I couldn't see what made her any better than Mademoiselle Rendell and yet knew she would be aghast at such a suggestion.

“My apologies.” Colin tipped his flute in her direction. “Do tell me then, how long was it that you and Samuel were having it off?”