Elizabeth Thornton - [Special Branch 02] (37 page)

“Oh, no,” said Jason. “I’m going, but you’re staying right here. We don’t know what Gerrard’s death may mean.”

“It means the danger is over,” she cried. “I’m free. Harry has no reason to come after me now.”

“If that were the case, Richard would have said so in his message.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Jakes, “I don’t think you’d want to take the lady to Mr. Gerrard’s
’ouse. From what Colonel Maitland’s man told me, it ain’t a pretty sight.”

“That settles it then.”

She could have argued that she’d been a soldier’s wife and had seen sights that would turn most men’s stomachs. But Jason had that set look on his face, and she knew better than to try to argue with him. “Then go,” she said, “and hurry back. I can’t bear not knowing what’s going on.”

He grinned at this, then said to Jakes. “You’re to stay by Mrs. Barrie’s side. Don’t leave her alone, not for one moment. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And lock the door behind me.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the door was duly locked, Gwyn made for the stairs. She stopped and turned around and looked at Lady Mary’s box. She wanted to bathe and change out of her soiled clothes, but she didn’t want to let the box out of her sight. “Jakes, would you mind bringing the box?” she said.

When he picked it up, she continued up the stairs, with Jakes following her.

In Gerrard’s house in the Strand, Richard Maitland stood with his back to the fireplace in the library and reenacted in his mind what must have happened when Gerrard and Wheatley died. Their bodies had been removed, but the blood-spattered wall behind the desk and the stain on the carpet by the door were grizzly reminders of what had taken place in this room. There was no sign of a struggle, and the magistrates, who had left some time ago, were satisfied with what the evidence suggested, murder and suicide. But Richard was far from satisfied.

He looked at the French doors, and in his mind’s
eye, saw them open. An intruder would have entered the room, someone whom Gerrard must have recognized or he would have raised the alarm or shot him with the pistol he kept handy in his desk drawer. Then the intruder had vanished. There were no footprints in the flower beds, not a sign that a stranger had calmly walked in, shot two men dead, then walked out again. Even the dogs that patrolled the grounds at night hadn’t made a sound. All of which supported the theory that the deaths were murder and suicide. But Richard was waiting for his men, who were combing the house and grounds, to find that one piece of evidence that would blow the theory to smithereens and confirm his worst suspicions.

There was one small consolation. With Gerrard dead, Gwyneth Barrie would no longer be in danger. But if he was right in his suspicions, the course of action he knew he must take gave him no consolation at all.

There was a knock on the door and Harper entered. He was breathing hard. “I just heard about Gerrard,” he said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the Marylebone house, guarding Mrs. Barrie?”

“It’s a long story,” said Harper sheepishly, “but I don’t suppose it matters now. Now don’t go looking at me like that. Mr. Radley is with her.”

Harper and Richard both turned when Massie, Richard’s second-in-command, entered.

“You were right, sir,” he said. “There is a window at the back that gives directly onto the servants’ staircase. We found grass and twigs on the stairs. Our man must have reentered the house right after the killings.”

“Good work. You know what to do?”

Massie nodded and left.

With that, Harper embarked on his report, beginning with the blue coat and how he and Mrs.
Barrie had traced its owner to the cottage in Hampstead, but he sensed that his chief wasn’t really paying attention. He didn’t ask any questions, and he didn’t nod encouragingly. He seemed to be holding himself in readiness for something that was going to happen, something unpleasant.

Harper had just got to the bit about the box of sketches, when the door burst open and Massie came in. This time he was breathing hard.

“He’s not here, sir! He’s not in the house, and he’s not in the grounds.”

“He must be!”

“No, sir. We’ve looked everywhere.”

Richard stared at Massie without really seeing him. He knew, then, that he hadn’t stopped Harry. But Harry didn’t know,
couldn’t
know, about the house in Marylebone, and that Mrs. Barrie would be there. Or could he?

“Come on, Harper,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“But where are we going?”

“To the Marylebone house. Massie, get the men together. And be quick about it.”

Massie said, “But with Gerrard dead, sir, why would he still go after Mrs. Barrie?”

“Ego? Prestige? To make us all look like fools? Who can say with scum like that?”

Harper stopped in his tracks. “Who are we going after?”

Richard didn’t answer him. He was already through the door.

When Gwyn entered the bedchamber, she used the candle she was holding to light the candles on the dresser. As she turned, she caught sight of herself in the long cheval mirror. She was turning into a Harper with a perpetual scowl on her face. She was
wishing now she had argued with Jason and insisted that he take her with him. She’d given in because she knew he’d only been thinking of her. He didn’t understand that she would not be easy until she’d seen Lady Mary with her own eyes.

And Gracie.

She still carried Gracie’s blue coat over her arm, and it made her think of Mark as an infant. He’d had a blue blanket that he refused to be parted from. It went everywhere with him until it was practically transparent. When it fell to pieces, he’d been heartbroken, but when she’d offered him another blanket, he would have none of it. She’d never understood her son’s attachment to that blanket until now. It was a talisman to ward off bad luck. As long as she had the coat, there was hope that she would find Gracie alive and well. Only then would she give the coat up.

She didn’t know where Gracie was hiding herself, but she thought Lady Mary might know, and that was another reason for insisting on speaking to her ladyship.

Oh, why hadn’t she insisted on going with Jason?

She laid Gracie’s coat on the bed along with her reticule, and walked through the open door to the dressing room with all the mirrors. There was a cloth and a jug of cold water on the washstand. After she’d washed her hands and face, she returned to the bedchamber.

Jakes had put the box on the small table, and she walked over to it and took a closer look. She noticed something she hadn’t seen in the library, a small brass plate with Williard Bryant’s name engraved on it. She couldn’t remember whether she’d known it was there or not. It was a well-made wooden box, the kind an artist would use when making rough sketches out-of-doors. On one side, there was a shallow drawer
for storing charcoal and pencils. She opened the drawer, saw that it was empty, just as she expected, and shut it again.

She sighed and straightened. Jakes was at the window, looking out. “What are you looking at?” she asked.

“Oh,” he turned and grinned. “I’m just watching to see that Mr. Radley gets safely away. But he hasn’t left the stable yet.”

“The stable?”

“Yes. Why?”

Of course. When they’d returned to town, Jason had stabled his horses and curricle here because he was afraid Harry might be watching the house on Half Moon Street.

There was still time to change his mind and make him take her with him.

She picked up the box. “I’m going with him,” she said. “Come on, Jakes.”

He came away from the window and blocked her exit. “Now, now, Mrs. Barrie,” he said. “You ’eard what Mr. Radley said. ’E wants you to stay ’ere.”

“I don’t care what Mr. Radley said. I’m going with him. You can take me to the stable or you can stay here.”

“Be reasonable, Mrs. Barrie.”

“Get out of my way, Jakes.”

Something moved in his eyes, a shifting that seemed to make his irises several shades lighter. He was as still as a hunting dog that had caught the scent of a pheasant. She glanced at the bed, but her reticule with the pistol inside it was no longer there.

Harry?
she thought wildly.
Could Jakes be Harry?

Richard Maitland’s words flashed through her mind.
You’d be surprised how little it takes to change one’s appearance—different clothes; hair brushed back or forward; spectacles; a little powder and paint; a new personality
.

Could this shabby little man with the monkey face possibly be Harry?

A slow smile curved his lips. “Ah, I see you’ve penetrated my disguise. What gave me away?”

She knew then that it was useless to plead ignorance. She’d been caught staring at him like a petrified virgin at a naked man. “Your eyes,” she said numbly. “I once saw a rabid fox with eyes like yours.”

When the smile left his face and he straightened, she thought despairingly that she must have been blind not to have seen through his disguise as soon as she set eyes on him. He was becoming more and more like Harry as the seconds passed.

“What happened to the real Jakes?” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “Or is there a real Jakes?”

“Oh yes, he’s real enough. He’s in the coal cellar, trussed up like a chicken. He was so trusting when I told him I was one of the marksmen Colonel Maitland had sent to defend the fort, so to speak. Oh, yes, I spared him. You see, I wanted him to give a message to Colonel Maitland.”

“What message?”

His eyes danced. “That the best man won.”

She was still holding Lady Mary’s box, and though it wasn’t particularly heavy, her arms were beginning to feel the strain. She was afraid to put it down, though, in case this madman saw the movement as a provocation. But her aching arms were nothing compared to the wild thumping of her heart and the roaring in her ears. Should she scream like a banshee? Would anyone hear her? Should she charge him?
Think!
she told her reeling brain.

“How did you know we’d be here?” she asked.

He chuckled. “I went to Bond Street and exchanged a few words with your landlady. A very patriotic lady is Mrs. Bodley. She couldn’t say exactly where you were staying, but she heard the driver who
moved your boxes say ‘Marylebone,’ and my agile mind did the rest.”

“Bond Street? But …”

He laughed. “I know. They set a trap for me. But I walked right in under their noses and walked right out again. No one can touch me.”

A wave of white-hot anger swept through her. He was smiling. This murderous swine was smiling, enjoying her terror. And in the gardens of Heath Cottage, one of his victims was fodder for maggots. More than anything, she wanted to wipe the smile from his face.

“Gracie touched you,” she said, almost yelling the words. “And she
hurt
you, didn’t she, Harry?”

She’d scored a point. She could see it in his eyes. There was that shifting again, but now he looked like a hurt puppy. Why was she trying to score points? She should be thinking of how to save herself. Where was her reticule? Where were Harper and Jason when she needed them?

His hand slipped between his arm and his chest. “Who told you about Gracie?”

He didn’t look quite so formidable now. That gesture spoke volumes. So, she’d been right all along. Gracie had used the bread knife to slow him down. She chanced a quick glance around the room and spied her reticule on the chair beside the door.

“Gracie told me.”

“She can’t have told you. I killed her. I cut her throat.”

He said the words as if he’d done no more than cut himself a slice of pie, and that sent another wave of rage pulsing through her. “Oh, no, Harry, you killed the wrong woman. Gracie told me what happened. You knocked on the door as she was cutting herself a slice of bread. You were so sure of yourself, weren’t you, Harry? But Gracie taught you a lesson,
didn’t she? She was too clever for you. She stuck a knife in you, then she ran through the house and out the front door. You thought you killed her, but you didn’t. She got away, and instead, you killed Mad Hattie.”

“That’s a lie!” he shouted.

“Oh? Then how do I know?” She was boiling with rage, but also highly sensible of her danger, and edging toward the chair with her reticule. Her one aim was to get to her pistol.