The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella (4 page)

“I say, Blackledge, you might have some ideas about Dollop’s puzzle.” Owl, as Lord Sykes was known at the club, leaned against the wall watching the game.

George, bless him, pointed his cue across the room. “Hush. Not while he’s playing.”

Keeping his eyes down, Weatherby considered the physics of the balls in front of him. If he hit just…there, he should be able to pot the red ball first. The other reason to prefer billiards to cards was that he understood force and reaction. Cards were just… dull.

“Well, he doesn’t have to answer now, does he. I was only posing the question so he might answer at his leisure.”

One of the other men, Weatherby did not see who, hissed at Owl. Drawing back the cue, Weatherby angled it so it would strike the ivory cue ball slightly off-centre. He drove it forward, the slick wood sliding through his fingers. The ball bounced off the rail the struck red sending it toward one pot, while his white ball deflected to hit George’s cue ball driving it to a different pot. A moment later his own cue ball sank into the same pot, scoring an inaccurately named “losing hazard” for an additional three points.

Some of the men in the room cheered, but a few of them groaned. He tried to ignore the money changing hands as wagers were called home. Straightening, he looked across the table to George.

His friend rested his cue on the floor. “You just scored a total of ten points on a single play. At this rate, no one will take a match with you except me.”

“That is a hardship.”

George smirked, no doubt knowing full well Weatherby’s opinions on the subject. “Another game?”

“I think not.” He glanced at the room and made the mistake of catching Owl’s eye.

The fellow’s chin had been swallowed by his cravat. “I say, Blackledge! You might have some ideas about Dollop’s puzzle.”

“So you intimated earlier.” Weatherby turned to put his cue away. “But I do not know what the puzzle is.”

“Not know! You are a queer duck. Not to know about the biggest puzzle of our time?” He followed Weatherby across the room in a miasma of snuff.

“You are going to enlighten me, I presume?” This encounter was precisely why he did not entertain guests at home if he could avoid it. At the club, he could always leave. Guests trapped him in his own home.

George stepped in to his rescue, on the pretense of also putting his cue away. “Dollop was robbed. So he says. But the room was locked and he’s the only one with the key.”

“There are wagers that say he robbed himself, indeed!” Owl rubbed his hands together. “But you would know if he didn’t, wouldn’t you Blackledge?”

Of course it was about a wager. “Why should I know?”

“Because you’re so frightfully clever. With those thingamabob’s you make and all.”

“Automaton.” He sought George’s eye. “Unfortunately, we have an engagement or I would stay and consider the matter.”

“Yes!” George stepped between him and Owl. “Must dash. Sorry, old chap. If I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

They escaped into the hallway. Though it was narrower than the billiard room, the pressure against Weatherby’s temples seemed to lessen. “I might have to decline billiards in the future.”

“Just contrive to lose occasionally.”

“I do.” He scowled. “And I don’t
contrive
to lose. You beat me honestly.”

“Luck.” George glanced behind them. “Now that we’re clear of that dolt, I truly am surprised that you are not interested in the Dollop robbery. It’s likely the same person who robbed Lynch, Livingston, and Rothfuss.”

“Again, I ask. Why am I interested in robberies?” Though, as he asked that, the memory of golden curls clouded his vision. He compressed his lips and steered them into one of the private conversation rooms.

George flopped into one of the red leather armchairs. “Because, you like puzzles. And these are all places that were inaccessible and the robbery took place when the houses were full. ”

“Define inaccessible.” Weatherby poured them both some brandy from the decanter on the sideboard and took a seat opposite him. “Locked door. No other access?”

“Dollop’s was his dressing room. Upper story. Two locked doors, the bedroom and the closet, both of which were still locked. It hardly seems likely that a thief would relock the doors.”

“If you wanted to delay discovery, it would be an excellent strategy.” He leaned back in his chair, picturing the woman and the ease with which she lifted herself out his skylight. If he could figure out who she was going to rob next, he could see her again. And when, exactly, had that become a goal? It was foolishness. He took a sip of the brandy. “Tell me more about these robberies.”

The Monday following her robbery of the Rothfuss home, Helena sat in one of the hard wooden benches in the foyer of Thursmore Retreat, waiting for the director to see her. The afternoon light crept in through dusty windows. Helena held her shawl over the reticule, with its heavy purse of coins, in her lap. On the stairs to the upper floor, one of the inmates sat weeping, with one of the nursing sisters at his side. She had a heavily lined face under her wimple and patted the man’s back as mechanically as one of Lord Blackledge’s automaton.

The door to the director’s office opened and his secretary stepped out.The secretary’s pate shone in light as thin and wizened as he was. “Director Cole will see you now.”

Helena gathered her things and bobbed a curtsy. She let her speech drift toward the East London tones of Papa Fred. “Thank ye, sir.”

The desk in the inner office was only a little broader than the director himself. Director Cole looked up from his papers. “Ah. Miss Worthen is punctual, I will give her that.” He beckoned with his fingers, but did not offer Helena a seat. “The purse, girl.”

“Yes, sir.” Helena bobbed a curtsy again as she pulled the purse from her reticule. With her plain dress, she had not expected to have the courtesy of a seat. He was supposed to think her nothing but a maid. “The mistress asked me to look in on the old man.”

“Mm.” He counted the coins with his lower lip between his teeth. A bead of sweat trembled on the edge of his cheek. “Go on then. He is in the same room.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. But it’ll be worth my hide, it will, if I don’t bring her a receipt.” Helena twisted her shawl in her hands in a mimicry of distress.

“Cornell!” The director scraped the coins into a strong box, and then slid it into his desk. It would be so easy to break in here and take the money if she wanted to. “Get a receipt for Miss Worthen’s father.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank ye.”

“Tell your mistress that it would save her a good deal of trouble if she paid for the full year.”

“I will sir.” Helena bobbed in a curtsy again. She knew that, but paying monthly meant she had an excuse to see her father.

She went into the outer lobby and took the receipt the clerk offered her. For all the attention he paid her, Helena might as well not have worn a disguise at all. But when she wanted to appear as Miss Worthen, it was important that she seem to be a separate person. Any woman wealthy enough to pay for her father’s care, would never have paid the fees herself. Papa Fred would have made the payments for her, but his appearance was not so easy to alter. So Helena wore a maid’s cap to cover her hair, and a plain brown dress, and disguised her voice.

Keeping her head down, as if she were meek, Helena took the stairs to the upper floor where her father stayed. The weeping man was still on the stairs, with snot streaming from his nose.

Helena pulled her skirts to the side to make her way past them, grateful that her father had a private room. She could do that much for him at least. The hall on the second floor was lit by a promenade looking out over an interior courtyard. Patients shuffled down the length of it, wrapped in their dressing gowns.

Sister Christina walked at the side of a veteran who was shy an arm. She looked up, and the creases in her face rearranged into a smile. “Miss Smith! Has it been a month already?”

“It has, ma’am.” Helena looked down the hall toward her father’s door. “How is he today?”

“Very well, miss. He likes the penny whistle his daughter sent last time.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

The nun squeezed her charges remaining arm and stepped closer to Helena. “See if you can get her to come visit him? He is always asking for her.”

Swallowing the grief, Helena nodded. “I will do my best, ma’am. And thank you for keeping a good eye on him.”

“The Lord watches over him. I just change his diapers.”

“As you say.” Helena used the curtsy as a shield. “I should be getting on, before I’m accused of dawdling.”

She hurried down the hall and knocked at her father’s door.

His weak and rusty voice called, “Enter.”

She slipped inside, shutting the door behind her and with it, she shed her affected accent. “Good afternoon, Papa.”

“Helena! Dear girl, how I have missed you.” He sat propped in a chair by the window. The light streamed across the slick skin of his ruined features. He stretched out a hand toward her, turning his white eyes in the direction of her voice. “Come sit by me.”

“Sister Christina tells me you have been playing the penny whistle.” Helena settled in the chair next to him and unfolded her shawl to expose the length of silk inside it. Her father reached for her and she caught his hand, guiding it onto the silk so that he would think she wore a finer gown than she did.

“I have my girl. It was a good gift.” He patted her knee, with his face upturned toward the sun. “And have you everything you need?”

“Yes, Papa.” She wiped the tears from beneath her eyes with her free hand. “Oh— I brought you another gift.”

“Helena… dearest. You must not spoil me so.”

“It all comes from your accounts, Papa.” The lie came easily after so many years of living it. Her father did not know the extent of their ruin. “So you are spoiling yourself, you see?”

“Well make certain you buy some fripperies for yourself.”

“I do.” She pulled the little snuff box out of her reticule. She had forgotten it was in her pocket when she left the Rothfuss home and it was too distinctive to try to pawn. She placed it in his outstretched fingers.

He turned the little box in his hands, head tilted to the side. It had seemed overly ornate but all those little details provided a feast for her father’s fingers. He found the catch and opened it, releasing the heady aroma of the snuff.

A broad smile spread across her father’s face and that, alone, was worth every risk.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Parisian

Weatherby stood with his hands behind his back, and stared up at the facade of the Rothfuss’s home. It was an imposing four story building of pale dressed stone. At his side, George leaned on his walking stick and stared at a young woman who was passing on the street.

The window that had been indicated as belonging to Lord Rothfuss’s dressing room, and the scene of the crime, was a tiny square inset into the stone. Could she have fit through there? Certainly no larger thief could have, but that did not necessarily mean it was her. She had hoisted herself easily enough out of his skylight, but this window was not half so accessible.

“You said they were having a party that night?”

“Mm?” George turned from looking down the street. “Yes. You should have been there. Mr Fraser spilled his punch all over one of Lady Fairchild’s gown. The shrieking was spectacular. Parisian.”

“The shrieking?”

“No, the gown.” He glanced down the street again where the young woman had stepped into a shop. “What do you say to a spot of tea.”

“I would say that there is likely to be ‘a nice bit of muslin’ there.” Weatherby turned away from the building and gestured for George to lead the way. But even if she could have fit, how could she have reached the window? He glanced over his shoulder at the window again and tried to picture how she might have reached it. Her legs had been long and beautifully rounded in those breeches.

“…you do know me well.”

“Mm? It is a burden I try to bear.” They had visited several homes that morning, theoretically on social calls. But each of the homes had been where a robbery had occurred, and each had a window that let into the scene of the crime. This window was the smallest of the lot, but they were all in places that seemed equally inaccessible. Each robbery had occurred the night of a party in the house. Which meant that all he had to do was figure out whose home duplicated those conditions and he would be able to see her again. To stop her. Clearly. “Speaking of burdens. It occurs to me that it would please my mother if I attended more soirees.”

“You would do that for your mother and not for me? I am wounded.”

“Woe.” Weatherby laughed at his friend. “In all seriousness though, next time you receive an invitation will you let me know?”

“What? Do you not get your own invitations? I thought you simply declined them all.”

“Decline often enough, and people stop sending them.” Which had seemed desirable at the time. But this was for a greater good. Stopping a thief, of course.