The Vanishing Thief (5 page)

Sir Broderick glanced at Frances and Adam, and they both nodded. “It's time you headed an investigation.”

I was glad I was sitting. Otherwise I'd probably have fallen over. “I've never led an investigation before. You've always told me what questions to follow, Sir Broderick. I won't know what to do.”

“You'll figure it out. And we'll be there to help you,” Adam Fogarty said as he paced his way to the door.

Doubts and objections filled my mind. “We don't have a reliable client.”

“Yes, we do. Drake himself. Don't you think he'd like to be found?” Frances asked.

“Well, yes, of course, but—”

“No buts. We're going to find Nicholas Drake. Or rather, you will. Don't you find it intriguing that we've heard from so many people who don't want him found?” Sir Broderick smiled at me.

I took a deep breath and tried to look at the puzzle rationally. Ticking things off on my fingers, I said, “Lord Hancock wants Drake to stay away from his ward. I understand why he doesn't want Drake to reappear if he wants to make a good marriage for her. The Duke of Blackford wants to find Drake so he can restore his name, but he doesn't want our help. You'd think he'd welcome assistance. And Drake's housekeeper refuses to believe anything untoward happened to her employer despite the blood and disorder in the house.”

“What else is odd about this, Georgia?” Sir Broderick's eyes were half-closed like a cat sleeping in the sun. He was slumped back in his wheeled chair, his arms at rest on his lap robe. From previous cases, I knew his appearance was at odds with his lightning-fast mind.

“Two peers came here tonight for the same purpose. One worried about his niece, the other worried about his name. And there are three more just like them lurking in the background. Maybe more.”

“What do we know about any of these people?”

“Nothing yet. Including Drake, whose ancestry may or may not be what I was told.”

“Study the records. There should be plenty on the peers. Miss Carter and Drake might prove more difficult. Adam, Jacob, Emma, they'll be your responsibility. After you go through the records, find their friends. Talk to the neighbors. It's a new neighborhood. Try talking to them whilst pretending to take a survey for the Water Board. That ruse has worked well in the past.”

Sir Broderick turned his gaze toward me. “We need to know the identities of all of Drake's victims. Talk to Lady Westover. She's a terrible old bat, but very useful. Then start with the records on Blackford and Hancock until you can tell me what they had for breakfast.”

“There's no financial gain in this,” Frances said.

“We're going to take on Drake's disappearance out of love for our fellow man,” Sir Broderick replied. And then he smiled the way the cat smiled at the canary. “Frances, help Georgia with the records, please.”

“You don't think this was a simple abduction,” Adam Fogarty said as he paced in front of the bookcases, his footsteps making a th-thump, th-thump on the wooden boards. Then he stopped and rubbed his stiff knee, muttering something in a growl.

“No. If it were, we wouldn't hear claims that a duke was involved or that the victim was a thief,” the baronet said.

I held up a hand, palm out. “To question our suspects, we're going to need to move about society.”

Sir Broderick smiled. “Be sure to see Lady Westover tomorrow. You'll need her help to give an authentic performance. You're about to enter aristocratic society.”

Chapter Four

A
S
the meeting broke up, I went to sit next to Sir Broderick. I couldn't bear the heat from the fireplace baking my skin, but I couldn't let it drive me away.

He looked at my face and said, “What is it, Georgia?”

“I saw him today. My parents' murderer.”

“Good grief. You can't be certain. It's been a dozen years.”

“Yes, I can. I spent time with him. I memorized his face. I remember his stride and how he carried a newspaper under his arm. I'll be able to point him out until the day I die.”

Sir Broderick kept shaking his head. “He could be dead or have left the country. His appearance could have changed with time.”

“This man looked older, but it was him. I saw him walking along Hyde Park Place. Perhaps it's time to again check on the land records for the cottage where my parents died.”

“We do that every year. It's never changed hands, and the killer is definitely not the owner or anyone who works around there. Did you speak to him?” Sir Broderick reached out and patted my hand.

My shoulders slumped and I couldn't hide the mournful frustration in my voice. “I couldn't catch up to him, and I lost him. I feel like I failed again.”

“You didn't fail, Georgia. Not then; not today. You did the best you could. If it was him.”

My best wasn't good enough. “Have you learned any more about the Gutenberg Bible?”

He looked away for a moment, and I thought he wouldn't answer me. “Every year or two, I hear a rumor about one for sale here in London. I heard the rumor again about two weeks ago.”

I reached out and took his hands. “Maybe he left and has come back because he heard the same rumor you did. Maybe that's why we haven't seen him until now.”

“‘We'? Georgia, please. I rarely leave this house, and I never saw him. And I know you've been looking for him on every street you walk down and in every carriage that passes you since the day your parents died. Can you be absolutely certain this man you saw wasn't very similar to your parents' killer, and you want him to be the one?”

“I was certain when I saw him. And now that I have an area to search, I'll find out if I was right.”

He gave my hands a squeeze. “Good luck. I want the bastard found, too. If he can be found. But for heaven's sake, be careful.”

* * *

I WAS ALONE
in the shop the next morning when the bell over the door jingled and a middle-aged man walked in. Portly, bearded, and balding, he was a caricature of a peer. Knowing a potentially large purchase when I see one, I hurried over to him with a welcoming smile. “May I help you? I'm the proprietor of Fenchurch's Books.”

He glanced around the shop rather than at me. “I'm the Duke of Merville.”

I kept my smile in place with effort as astonishment nearly made me miss the man's next words.

“I understand from my man of affairs that you deal in antiquarian Bibles.”

“I have a small selection, Your Grace, and I can check the catalogs for more.” I hoped my face reflected a helpful expression, since my mind was searching for a way to bring up Nicholas Drake's thieving and Merville's ride in the Duke of Blackford's coach the night Drake disappeared.

“I'm looking for something with gilt edges, no wormholes or brown spots or water stains. New Testament only, or just the Gospels. A good leather cover. Original, not rebound, in quarto or octavo size.”

The Duke of Merville was obviously a collector of the best examples of antiquarian books. He sounded like a man who would appreciate the care I used in storing the rare books in my possession. “I keep the old books over here, away from outside walls, the floor, and the ceiling to keep the temperature constant, and behind brass wire rather than glass to ensure air can move freely around them.”

He followed me behind the sales counter to the antiquarian shelves. Ordinarily, I'd have insisted he stay on the other side of the counter, but I didn't want to start off by telling a duke to behave like a mere mortal. I put on my pair of cotton gloves, handed him a pair from the counter, and unlocked the ornate grille.

“How much do you plan to spend?”

“How much is a volume meeting my expectations?”

“I have an octavo-sized Gospels meeting your requirements for”—he was a duke and I wanted this sale—“twenty pounds.” I pulled the book out and held it away from him while I stared at his hands.

With pursed lips, he yanked off his leather gloves and put on the cotton ones. Then he held out his hand. I passed him the volume and held my breath. The duke was knowledgeable, but was he careful with fragile things?

He examined the cover, which was cracked in a few places from heat sometime in the past, and ruffled the pages enough to send up a puff of dust. “Eighteenth century?”

“Possibly late seventeenth. The printer worked in both.”

“Do you have something a little more modern, with a cover in better shape?”

So he was one of those, who only cared how the cover looked on his shelves. I put back the book he'd examined and pulled out a quarto New Testament covered in pristine black leather. “This is late eighteenth century and kept in very careful circumstances. The price reflects its condition.”

I believed it had been kept at the bedside of the first owner, a woman who'd possessed it for all of her long life, which explained the book's still-elegant condition. I gently stroked the beautiful volume before I handed it over.

He examined the book briefly. “I'll give you fifty pounds for it.”

I'd never thought I'd hear those words. I'd expected to bargain him up to forty-five at most. “A most discerning purchase. I'll wrap it for you.”

“I need something appropriate for my daughter to carry down the aisle at her wedding. Then I'll add it to my collection.” He pulled off the cotton gloves and walked to the other side of the counter as he pulled on his finely crafted leather ones. He glanced around my empty shop again as if he were appraising it and its owner. “I see you don't have much trade.”

Quick to defend my shop from his slur, I said, “Mornings are our slow hours. We also do more business when the gentry and overseas visitors come up to London to shop.”

As soon as he handed over the Bank of England notes, I added, “The Duke of Blackford said you had something stolen by Nicholas Drake.”

For the first time, he looked me in the eye. “You know Blackford?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me skeptically. “And you know Drake?”

“I know he's now missing.”

“Bad luck for him. He won't get another penny until he reappears.”

“Oh? You pay your thief?”

He jerked back a half step and then snatched up his purchase. “Of course not.” He turned and rushed toward the front door.

“Then why did you say—?”

The bell jangled as the duke yanked the door open and stepped outside between our two show bow windows. With a quick glance in each direction, he stepped onto the sidewalk and marched up the street.

* * *

LATER THAT DAY,
I left my bookshop in Emma's care and traveled by foot and the Oxford Street omnibus to search Hyde Park Place. The day was brisk and the sun tried to break through the gray coal-tinged clouds, encouraging people to come outside. The sidewalks were full and there were plenty of top-hatted men, but not the one I searched for.

Turning my feet toward Grosvenor Square, I vowed I'd be back soon and I'd find my parents' killer. Now I had just enough time, if I hurried, to reach Lady Westover's neighborhood of grand town houses. I had the sidewalks to myself. No one but servants walked there except on the finest of days.

I made certain to arrive at Lady Westover's after lunch but before visiting hours. As was often the case, I found her ladyship in the south-facing greenhouse she'd built onto the back of her house.

She looked up when I entered, a mist sprayer held in one glove-swathed hand. “Ah, there you are, Georgia. Sir Broderick sent a note saying you'd be round to see me today. How is the dear boy? Have you a new case? How exciting. Help me off with this apron, child.”

I spent the next five minutes unwrapping Lady Westover from her apron, duster, gloves, hat, and boots. Underneath was a countess in pristine dress, unmarked, unwrinkled, and undeterred. “Come along,” she said, taking my arm, “we'll find someone to get us some tea.”

Once we were settled in front of the fire in Lady Westover's cheery yellow and white morning room with a pot of tea and delicate sandwiches, the countess said, “Now tell me all about this new case.”

“Have you ever heard of Nicholas Drake?”

The lines in her face turned into deep furrows. “No. I haven't. Should I have?”

“Supposedly his mother is descended from French royalty and his father is the younger son of a younger son.”

“Whose younger son?”

“So far we've not learned his name.”

“Well, I really doubt that story. It's so easy to say these things if one can keep them general. Once the story is given specifics, it all blows away like dust. What has this Nicholas Drake done?”

“He's vanished. Either by abduction or by running away, depending on which story you prefer.”

“And you want to find him.”

“Yes.”

“I'm afraid I can't help you with him.”

“It's not him I came to ask you about. It's his victims. Nicholas Drake has been accused of being a thief by the Duke of Blackford, the Duke of Merville, the Earl of Waxpool, Lord Dutton-Cox, and Lord Hancock. We need to know what you know about these men, and whether you can deduce any other victims.”

Lady Westover set down her cup and said, “Oh, my. Where to begin. Dutton-Cox is a stingy soul, the kind who throws large parties and then is miserly with the food. The heir is in the country with his family. There were two daughters. One was supposed to marry Blackford two years ago, until she died just before the wedding. He had a lucky escape. She was a vain thing, just like her sister, who recently wed Viscount Dalrymple. Lady Dutton-Cox is still grieving the daughter who died and has become something of a recluse. Sad, really. I'm fond of Honoria.” She glanced at me. “Lady Dutton-Cox. We've been close friends for years and I refuse to believe she or her husband could be involved in an abduction.”

Lady Westover rose to pinch a dead leaf off one of the many ferns hung or set on stands around the room. While she examined three of the plants, I pulled my notebook out of my pocket and jotted a few notes in pencil.

She sat down and said, “Where was I? Waxpool is a sharp old man, an older version of the Duke of Blackford. At least five years my senior. His heir, a fat, puffed-up piece of buffoonery, will destroy all Waxpool has built up over the years. The old man prefers his grandchildren, a boy and a girl who take after him. The boy is at Cambridge and doing quite well, from all reports. The girl has been presented to the queen, but doesn't spend much time at social events. She's found the men swarm around her money rather than her, and she's been rather put off by it.

“I don't know the Merville family at all. By reputation, they are conservative, politically and financially.”

“I met the Duke of Merville today in my shop. He offered more for an antiquarian Bible than I expected to receive after hard bargaining.” I hoped to do more business with him. Much more.

“Odd. I'd heard he was given to underpaying.” She was up again, closely examining a dead frond on a large and ugly fern.

“And while I was godmother to the last Lord Hancock's wife, I don't know his brother, the current Lord Hancock. I wasn't asked to sponsor his ward, my goddaughter's child, when she came out last season.” She made an expression of disgust, which could have been for the leaf or Hancock's failure to ask for Lady Westover's help.

“And Blackford. Oh, my. Sir Broderick said you'd met him.”

I'd been enjoying the tea and sandwiches while I wrote. I swallowed and said, “Yes. He seems to have either a strange sense of humor or a kind nature behind his gruff exterior. I expected to get thrown out of his house on my rear, but he was polite enough to tell me his side of the story. He claimed Drake was a thief and they figured it out after the Duke of Merville's daughter's engagement party. He wouldn't tell me who ‘they' were, but Lord Hancock supplied the names.”

“I've never heard the Duke of Blackford described as kind, but I'd believe he has a perverse sense of humor. He hasn't been rumored attached to anyone since Victoria Dutton-Cox's death a week before their nuptials. He has a brilliant head for investments and has made an absolute fortune.”

“What can you tell me about his sister?”

“His half sister. Margaret. He raised her after the deaths of both her parents. She was the old duke's child with his second wife. She was presented to the queen, but by the next season, after Victoria Dutton-Cox's death, she was up north at their castle and has never returned to London. Can you imagine a young society belle not coming to London for the season?”