The Vanishing Thief (20 page)

“It would be terrible for her and the family if word were to spread of her . . . affliction.”

“It's a shame her husband could drink himself under the table and no one in polite society would bat an eye, but his poor grieving wife can't.”

Lady Westover's stern expression told me my opinion was not welcome.

“I spoke to Lord Dutton-Cox. He mourns his daughter as much as his wife does. She needs to try to rely on him. Encourage her to talk to him, Lady Westover.”

“I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, she needs privacy to regain her composure.”

“No one will hear of her lapse from me. I've already made the same promise to her daughter, Elizabeth. I can't speak for the Dutton-Cox servants.”

“That's all I ask, Georgia. That you allow her to suffer in peace. And hopefully she'll regain her common sense.” She gave me a sharp look. “You went so far as to question her daughter after that unpleasant visit with Honoria?”

“Elizabeth came to visit me at the bookshop. She told me about their problems with Nicholas Drake and what her sister was like. She doesn't seem worried that I'll bother her mother again.”

“Good. I'm glad she's showing some interest in her mother. Honoria's going to need all the help she can get from her family.”

I nodded, and the tiara stayed in place. I gave her a surprised smile, and she patted my arm. Apparently I could be trusted as much as one of aristocratic birth.

“What costumes will Drake's victims wear to the ball?” I asked.

“Waxpool and his grandchildren won't be attending. Neither will the Dutton-Coxes or the Naylards,” Lady Westover said.

“The younger Dutton-Cox daughter, Elizabeth, will be attending with her husband, Viscount Dalrymple. They're going as Cleopatra and Mark Antony,” the duke said, suddenly appearing at my side.

“This is her first masked ball as a married woman. Young women often run wild when they're first freed from their chaperones,” Lady Westover said with a tsk.

“She couldn't get away with it if Dalrymple wasn't daring,” the duke said. “They're well matched.”

“I know what you're wearing,” I told the duke. “What about the Mervilles and Lord Hancock?”

“The Mervilles go as Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI every year. I don't know about Hancock or his ward.”

I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Lady Westover, who shook her head. “I don't know, either.”

When the duke proclaimed us ready, all the jewels were put away and then loaded into a small chest. “Would you ladies like a ride home in my carriage?”

“That would be very kind, Your Grace,” Emma said before I could open my mouth.

“I need to stop at Sir Broderick's house for a moment tonight, so—”

The duke gave me a gracious smile. “We will make a small detour.”

Thanking Lady Westover, we went out and climbed into his tall carriage. Emma scrambled in with grace. With my muscles screaming from the earlier attack, I needed a hand to make my way up the folding steps and felt awkward.

Within a few minutes, we were at Sir Broderick's stoop. When the carriage door was opened, I looked at the pavement far below my feet and shuddered.

I was helped from the carriage by a footman while another of the duke's liveried servants rang the bell. Jacob opened the door in time to see me land heavily on both feet on the pavement. Fighting a grin, he said, “Georgia, do you need to see Sir Broderick?”

“No. Just a message for him.” Sliding a quick glance toward the duke watching me from the carriage, I leaned toward Jacob and whispered in his ear. “Send word to Frances Atterby that she needs to come to the bookshop tomorrow to help Emma for the next four days. I'm going north to talk to the duke's sister. I need to know what's going on before this masked ball.”

“What's wrong?” he whispered back.

“I don't know. None of this makes sense.” Then, raising my voice, I wished him a good night and climbed into the carriage with as much dignity as I could muster, since I couldn't manage any agility.

* * *

I LEFT FROM
King's Cross Station the next morning wearing my traveling clothes and carrying a few good novels in my holdall. I broke my journey in Durham at the end of the first day, staying in a small guesthouse and touring the cathedral. The next morning I started out again early by rail for the village of Blackford on the River Black.

For the last few miles I transferred from a slow-moving local train to an open cart, bouncing painfully on a wooden plank under the weak midafternoon sunshine. The water rushing in the river alongside the road raised my spirits and I hoped for a quick end to my journey.

I could smell the sea before we arrived. Then Castle Blackford's turrets appeared above the treetops, and soon I had my first view of the village.

The village, when we came to it, rose up the hillsides, probably looking much as it had when the Vikings arrived. The sea pounded against the river at the mouth of the rocky harbor. One bridge at the inland end of the village connected the stone and slate buildings on each side of the river above the docks.

Walking into the only inn, I found the grim-faced manageress in the reception room. She showed me to a tiny room on the first floor with an iron bedstead and a view of a single horse cart in the street. I reserved dinner and set out on the climb to the castle.

The lane constantly rose until I thought I'd reach the clouds, but I didn't mind. I was curious to see the home of the Duke of Blackford. The tang of salt filled my head and the call of seabirds rang in the breezy air. As the path curved back and forth, a stone fortress came in and out of view behind pine trees and the boulders that lined the road. It looked medieval and decidedly uncomfortable.

When I reached it, I was glad to see the drawbridge was down, because the tall, unbroken walls were unbreachable. I walked through the empty gateway and into the cobblestoned courtyard. On either side were stables and other outbuildings against the protecting walls. In front of me, set in the center of the fortress, was a modern stone manor house with large windows. The edge of a flower garden peeked out from behind the house but in front of the surrounding wall. I headed toward a door facing me on the ground floor, hoping I'd find a bell to ring.

Before I reached the house, someone found me. A middle-aged woman in a faded dress and apron, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and a kerchief around her hair, came out of a low door in a building to my left and crossed over to me. “Hello,” she said, suspicion in her voice.

“Hello. I've come to speak to Lady Margaret.”

She stared at me, her eyes widening.

“May I speak to her, please?”

“Oh, you can speak to her. I don't know whether she'll speak to you, though. Ask at the church in the village.” At that, the woman turned on her heel and walked away.

Had Lady Margaret become a nun, or did she spend every day in prayer here in the middle of this wild landscape? I glanced back when I reached the gateway and saw the woman watching me through narrowed eyes.

As I walked downhill to the village, I caught the sparkle of the sea through the trees and boulders. All the buildings, from castle to shed, were built of stone. Wood seemed reserved for the boats I spotted in the small harbor.

The church was on the edge of the village, a small, green, tree-shaded graveyard spreading out on two sides. Seeing no one about, I opened one of the heavy doors and walked into the sanctuary. It was beautiful, with stained glass sending sparks of color over the pews, rich cloths covering the carved stone altar, and shadowy corners.

The vicar came out from the side and said, “May I help you?”

“I was told Lady Margaret is here.”

“Yes, near the oak tree.”

“I didn't see anyone outside.”

He gave me an odd little smile. “Her grave is there.”

Chapter Seventeen

I
FELT,
rather than heard, my gasp. None of the books on the peerage listed a date of death for Lady Margaret Ranleigh. “When did she die?”

“Nearly two years ago.”

“Quite suddenly?”

“It was an accident. Drowning.”

I lowered my head and said a silent prayer for this life cut short. Then I said, “Will you show me?”

He led me outside and walked slowly with me. Her grave was past the oak tree in the sunshine. Her gravestone was large, but it only said her name, her dates of birth and death, and
Beloved sister
.

“The duke must have been beside himself.”

“Yes.”

“Was he the one who found her?”

“He was in London. Took him until dawn the next day to return here after we sent the telegraph. He was on a borrowed horse, splattered with mud, and ready to fall out of the saddle he was so tired.”

I couldn't picture the duke in that state. He must have been heartbroken. “Does he come back here often?”

“Once a quarter, to visit her and check on the estate.”

Her death changed everything I knew about the Duke of Blackford. He'd kept his sister's death a secret in defiance of law and custom. Did he hold Nicholas Drake responsible? I could barely contain my excitement over this clue to our case and the duke's mind, but there was one more thing I hoped to discover in this village. “Did you know Nicholas Drake? He was from here.”

“Before my time. I've only been here three years.”

“And the Carters?”

He pointed. “That's their house over there. Second one from the end.”

“Thank you.” I started in that direction, but the vicar called after me.

When I turned, he said, “This is a close community. Don't bring trouble from the outside world to their doors. Especially trouble that doesn't concern them.”

The priest must have known Lady Margaret's death was being kept secret from the outside world. I didn't know why he'd gone along with what had to be the duke's idea, but it didn't matter. “What trouble could I bring here? I'm sure no one here cares about the records of the peerage.”

“Everyone is very loyal to the duke.”

With a nod, I walked to the small, two-story stone cottage so like its neighbors. At my knock, an old lady opened the stout door a few inches. The doorway felt so low I ducked slightly. “I've recently spoken to the Carters' daughter Anne and would like to bring her greetings to her parents.”

The door opened wider. “I'm Mrs. Carter. Anne's mother. Come in. You've seen Annie? How is she?”

There was a second door to enter, as low and thick as the first, and then I was in a dim parlor with lace curtains at the small windows, no fire in the fireplace, and stiff, uncomfortable-looking chairs.

When I opened my mouth to answer, she said, “No, wait. Sit down, please. I'll fix tea and call Anne's da.” She bustled out of the room. “Papa, come here, please,” she shouted to someone.

I sat, admiring the braided rug on the plank floor and wondering how long it would be until someone reappeared. And how long I could breathe the musty coal-fire smell in this chilly room without sneezing.

Finally, a man as ancient as the woman appeared and sat down across from me. “Ma says you've seen Annie.”

“Yes, she's in good health and sends her greetings.”

“She shamed us, she did. Did she tell you about going to prison? And all because of that lout she married.” He stared fiercely through faded blue eyes set in leathery, wrinkled skin.

I stared back. “She's still married to him. They're in London.”

“As long as they don't come back here.” He waved a hand and looked away.

The old woman returned carrying the tea tray. “Annie's in London, you say?”

“Yes, ma'am. She's there with Nicholas Drake, in good health and spirits.”

“I'm surprised she found him once she got out of prison. I would have thought he'd abandon her, him with his fancy ways,” the old man said.

“They're together and quite happy,” I reported, hoping my words were true. I could see their daughter loved Drake. I wasn't certain of his feelings.

“Good,” the woman said, handing me a cup of tea. “It must have been a long journey to reach here.”

“Two days.” The tea was hot and weak.

“Why'd ye come? It wasn't to see us,” the man said.

“I had business at the castle. Shame about Lady Margaret.”

“Annie helped in the nursery in her first job when Lady Margaret was small. She thought Lady Margaret was the most beautiful creature. And she was. But no one ever said no to her until she went to London. The shock was too much and destroyed her,” the woman said.

I took a sip of tea while I considered her words. Trying to sound only mildly interested, I said, “But drowning. How terrible.”

“Not as terrible as it was for those who had the watch of her, letting her escape. They didn't find her body until daylight, caught on some rocks at the mouth of the river.” The man sounded like he relished the story, giving a jerky nod when he finished.

“Letting her escape? She was a prisoner?”

“Aye, orders of His Grace. She'd already tried to run away once before.”

“Why do you think she didn't take the road and the bridge if she was running away from the castle? What would she gain by trying to escape by sea?”

“Perhaps it was a different escape she had in mind,” Mr. Carter said.

“Oh, don't say that. 'Tis a sin and you know it. Lady Margaret loved life. 'Twas an accident, was all,” his wife told him in a sharp voice.

It took me a moment to take in the full measure of their words. Steering the conversation away from this new possibility as I digested it, I asked, “Do your daughter and Nicholas Drake know what happened to Lady Margaret?”

“Of course. At least Annie does. I told her when I visited her in prison. Terrible place,” her mother said.

“What did Annie tell you about Lady Margaret as a child? I heard she liked to pretend the Vikings were coming to Blackford Castle.”

“Aye, she did that. Imaginative little sprite she was. Spent a lot of time in the garden asking all sorts of questions about the flowers. Then when she got a little older, she became interested in the healers and apothecaries of the olden days. She knew good flowers and plants from poisonous ones before she could read well or do her sums. Her painting and sketching were marvels, but she hated to do needlework. Said it was too predictable.” Mrs. Carter smiled.

“Too imaginative by half, I'd say. Left on her own with no one but servants and governesses, and if you told her no, you'd be out on your ear,” Mr. Carter grumbled.

“You told her no a time or two, and you kept your post,” Mrs. Carter said.

“Only because the duke, father and son, respect a man for the work he does, and I did good work until the arthritics took over my body,” Mr. Carter said. “And she couldn't drown me like she did her pets.”

“She only did that the once, and it was an accident.”

“What about all those kittens and puppies we found drowned over the years?”

I shuddered at the picture forming in my mind.

“But we know that wasn't her, don't we?” Mrs. Carter said.

“We do know it were her. The whole village knew.”

“That was only a daft rumor.”

“There seemed to have been a lot of rumors about Lady Margaret. Whether she meant to end up in the water, whether she was the one who drowned kittens and puppies. Are there any other rumors?” Hateful things, rumors, but I needed to know what was being said in the village where people knew her better than anywhere else.

“'Twasn't rumor. 'Twas fact,” Mr. Carter said.

“It was all nasty rumor. She was a spoiled, lonely little girl, and not well loved around here for it. That's the truth,” Mrs. Carter said.

“Rubbish,” Mr. Carter said.

I didn't want to get sidetracked by what sounded like an old quarrel. “Drake worked for the family, too, didn't he? As a footman? So he must know the duke.”

I must have spoken too eagerly, since the old man looked at me sharply. “Aye, he did and knows the duke. The duke knows him, too.”

Then why didn't the duke point out Drake's lies when he was engaged to Victoria Dutton-Cox? What would make someone like the Duke of Blackford put up with Drake infiltrating polite society posing as an aristocrat?

Unfortunately, the Carters didn't know any more, or they weren't willing to tell me. Whatever secrets Lady Margaret brought here wouldn't be revealed to me.

I walked around the village and returned to the inn in time for my dinner. I needn't have hurried. I was served, alone, by the hatchet-faced proprietress in the parlor bar while men's raucous laughter could be heard from the main bar. I was certain no one in the other room was eating overboiled potatoes, mushy greens, and stringy mutton, or they wouldn't have been laughing.

I had nearly abandoned the effort of struggling through eating deliberately bad cooking when the manageress returned with an equally grim-looking woman. “You have a visitor.”

Smiling, I said, “Won't you sit down?”

The two women stood looking down at me. “Why are you here?” scowling woman number two said.

“I didn't realize it was your business.”

“I'm His Grace's housekeeper. You came to the castle. That makes it my business.”

“I came to see Lady Margaret.”

“She's dead.”

“Yes. I saw her gravestone.” This conversation was almost as unpalatable as the dinner.

“And then you spoke to the Carters.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I was bringing their daughter's regards.”

“You know Anne?”

“I also know His Grace.” I expected her to threaten me with telling Blackford I'd been there. I thought I'd better nip that nonsense in the bud, and then maybe I'd find out what she really wanted.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Then don't.”

“If you've finished with your business with Lady Margaret, I suggest you leave in the morning.”

I saw a chance and decided to take it. “Not quite finished. Perhaps you can help me. What's the truth behind the drowning of puppies and kittens in this village?”

The two women looked at each other and the room grew quiet. Even the noise from the bar lessened, as if the men were waiting for a reply. “You know about that?”

“Yes.”

“'Twasn't Lady Margaret.”

I patted the back of the chair next to me. “Tell me.”

The proprietress nodded to her, and the woman sat. “There's a young man in the village who wasn't born with all his wits. He followed Lady Margaret around, and she always had a puppy or kitten with her. She drowned one kitten herself, while carrying the creature when she was trying to climb into a boat. She slipped and nearly fell in herself. The young man was there and saw what happened.”

She shook her head. “After that, her pets would be found drowned after a few weeks or a few months. No one understood why, and for a long time Lady Margaret was suspected, despite that she was upset at their deaths. It was finally discovered that the young man was to blame.”

“Was there evidence against him?”

The woman nodded. “Caught in the act. However, Lady Margaret was fanciful, temperamental, spoiled. She was feared in the village because if something didn't go her way, someone would pay.”

“Pay?” That didn't sound good.

“Outsiders would get sacked, but not without a good reference and a month's wages. Villagers would be warned to stay away for a few weeks or shifted to another post. This didn't happen as often as folks will tell you now that she's gone.”

The woman stared at the fire for a moment and then continued. “Lady Margaret spent most of the little time she had with her family alone with the duke, and a duke has real power. Her idea of what was normal was warped. Especially after her mother's death. Until then, her mother was her whole world. After that, no one had the heart to say no to her.”

“What happened to her mother?”

“You know the duke. Ask him.”

I planned to as soon as I reached London.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER,
I arrived back home to find Sir Broderick had called a meeting of the Archivist Society for that night. Proclaiming that I couldn't face another hour with the grime and soot of travel on me, I left Frances Atterby helping Emma in the bookshop while I heated water in the gas geyser and poured myself a bath.

After four days of smoking railway engines, bouncing horse carts on dusty roads, crowded train cars, and lumpy beds, sinking into a tub of steaming hot water was glorious. While my body reveled in the twin pleasures of heat and soap, my mind studied what I'd learned on the trip. The locals appeared to suspect Lady Margaret of killing herself that night two years before and I was left wondering why. Did guilt drag her into the water?