“That’s Mrs. More’s shop,” Amy said, with rising excitement. “She’s in on it, George! I hope the money is still there.”
“It’s got to be. That crate was full, and they didn’t take time to unpack it. They plan to be back tomorrow to do it. Either that or she’s in it with them. Dash it, she could be the one behind it all.”
“Oh no. I can’t believe that. If she is aiding them, they are conning her with some story. Or – George. She lets the two top rooms of her cottage. It’s one of her roomers. We must hurry along and see if we can spot him.”
George helped her down from her mount. They crouched low behind the concealment of the hornbeam hedge and crept forward until they came to the opening into the yard. George was in the lead. Seeing no crate within, nothing but a fading vegetable garden awash in moonlight, he beckoned Amy forward. The back of the house was all in darkness. They stood a moment, irresolute.
Amy was overcome with a memory of her recent fright at the bay. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. But she knew the Gentlemen weren’t here. If there was anyone, it was only Mrs. More’s roomers. She knew them both by sight from her visits to the modiste. One of them was a simple, good-natured fellow who painted houses and barns on contract. She acquitted him of being clever enough to be involved. The other was an elderly, retired clerk from London. He had a sly look about him. He claimed his doctor had sent him here for the sea air. As he was from London, he might have the connections necessary to distribute the paper forgeries. George could certainly handle him.
“We’ll try the door. Go quietly,” she cautioned.
George drew his pistol and advanced toward the cottage. He could see through an opening in the window curtains that there was no lamp burning within. Even while he watched, a dim light appeared. It moved about, suggesting a hand-held lantern.
“He’s in there right now!” he whispered over his shoulder.
“Is he alone?”
“I only see one lantern.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Then let us go in.”
“I’ll go first. If he gives me trouble, you can threaten him with your gun.”
“Kirby took it from me. Let me find a weapon.” She found a rake leaning against the fence and picked it up, brandishing the claw end.
“Stay behind me,” George said.
Amy felt it was unworthy of her, but she agreed gladly to take the more passive role. George tried the knob, it turned. He threw the door open wide and barged into a small kitchen, brandishing the pistol. “Hands up, Mister,” he said in a firm voice. “I have a pistol.”
Out of the darkness, a bored voice drawled, “Good for you, George.” Ravencroft lifted the lantern to show his face. Not that Amy needed any further proof than that voice. The flickering orange light lent his features a diabolical air. “Now would you kindly close the door – and put the gun away before you accidentally shoot Miss Bratty.”
“You, again!” Amy cried. She was so frustrated from the trials of this night that she could hardly contain tears of vexation. “How did you get here?”
“On horseback, as I believe I mentioned earlier,” he said, putting his pistol back in his pocket. A sneering smile moved his lips as he studied her. “You came to do a little raking, I see. “
She set the rake against the stove. “I didn’t see you behind Kirby.” He already had the case unpacked. Three bolts of silk lay on the table, three more on the floor, giving the little kitchen the air of an oriental bazaar.
“I was in front of him, actually. I rode to town through the meadow and beat Kirby here. I hid in the hedge outside until he and Gash left. I didn’t want to jump the gun and arrest them if all they were carrying was silk.”
“How did you know where to come?”
“By induction. The draper doesn’t sell silk. The ladies in Easton wear silk gowns. Where do they get them? Certainly not from London, to judge by their cut.” Amy simmered at this sly taunt. “Ergo, I induce the gowns – and the silk – come from the modiste. Then it followed that the modiste might have a deeper hand in this business – and in any case, Kirby was headed this way. There was nothing but silk in her crate, however. No forged bank notes. Help me put this back, George, and we’ll go.” He lifted a bolt from the table.
“Would the money be rolled up in the bolts of silk?” George asked.
Ravencroft’s hand stopped. He looked at George and an approving smile flashed across his countenance. “Possibly. Good idea, George. Let us have a look.” He lifted the bolt above his head and yards of glimmering emerald silk unfurled with a whisper. No shower of bills fell from its folds. They tested the other bolts – lovely scarlet and peacock blue and gold billowed around their ankles, within minutes, the floor was covered in a sea of swirling silk – but no money was found.
Ravencroft stood a moment, frowning into the empty case. Then he looked up. “Tidy up here, George. I’m going to follow the ‘Silk Trail.’ See if I can find a trace of the caravan carrying the big load.”
“Tidy up your own mess!” Amy said sharply. “George and I will go look for the wagon.”
“On those old jades you rode to the coalyard last night?” he scoffed. “You couldn’t catch a turtle.” He headed for the door before she could think of a setdown. With his hand on the knob he turned and said, “If you’re thinking of buying a few ells of this contraband, I suggest the green. It would match your eyes, and go beautifully with your hair.” There was a twinkle of amusement in his own eyes as he spoke.
Amy determined on the spot that she would buy any color but green, And it was her best color, too. “Go to the devil,” she snapped.
His smile stretched to a grin. “All in good time, ma’am. I’m not dead yet.” Then he was gone, and she was left to clean up his mess.
She and George rewound the silk and placed the bolts back in the box, covered the box and slipped quietly out the back door to their waiting mounts for the dispirited ride home. As eager as Amy was to see the Cougar’s work continued, she almost hoped Ravencroft didn’t succeed in finding the wagon. She wanted to find it herself, to show him she was every bit as capable as he was.
When they reached Bratty Hall, Amy dismounted and handed George the reins to take the mount to the stable. “Thank you, George.”
“I enjoyed it, Miss Bratty. Just let me know if you need me again.”
She walked around to the library door and stepped in, leaving it ajar for George. The room was in darkness. She didn’t plan to light a lamp, but just slip up to her bedchamber. She took one step into the room and stopped dead. There, in the corner across the room, just where a pair of comfortable old armchairs sat, was a glowing red eye staring at her. She couldn’t hold in the light shriek of terror that swelled unbidden in her throat.
“It’s only me – again,” Ravencroft’s hateful voice said. She was coming to loathe the very sound of it. If he said he had found the wagon and recovered the paper money and knew who was distributing it, she would – well, it was just lucky for him that Joe Kirby had stolen her pistol. The red eye had disappeared but she caught a whiff of cigar smoke. His cigar had caused the red glow.
“If you care to light a lamp, I believe I can withstand the sight of you in that tramp’s outfit you favor for nocturnal doings,” he said in a polite, conversational tone.
“If you’re afraid of–”
“No, really you don’t look that bad, Miss Bratty. In my line of work I encounter many awful, frightening sights.”
“Afraid of the dark, I was going to say.”
“Ah, sorry. My mistake.” From the corner she heard him rise, heard the rasp of steel on flint
as he prepared to light the lamp himself. The wick flared and he set the glass chimney over it, then turned to walk toward her.
It annoyed her greatly that he wasn’t even a tiny bit disheveled. His glossy hair sat smoothly on his head. His black cape slung over his shoulders looked elegant. He even had a diamond pin in his cravat. She was acutely aware of the contrast between her own awful disarray and his elegance. His eyes moved slowly from her misshapen slouched hat, over her rough fustian jacket and trousers to the mud-stained boots that were too large for her feet.
“Not really frightening at all,” he said, chewing back a grin. “Just slightly grotesque. You should be perched on a roof at Notre Dame.” He pulled off her hat and gazed critically for a moment at the tumble of auburn curls that fell to her shoulders.
She refused to be baited into arguing about her appearance. In a fit of pique, she grabbed the hat and rammed it back on her head. “Did you find the wagon?”
“No. “
“Then if you just came here to insult me, I suggest you leave.”
“I came for your help.”
Her eyes widened to a stare. She couldn’t have been more surprised if he had said he came to propose marriage. Her first rush of gratification was followed by suspicion, “Why?” she asked bluntly.
“Because it is now perfectly obvious to me that you lack both common sense and judgment. You intend to pursue this matter with or without my approval. I would be sorry to see you come to grief.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “Sir George would have my head on a platter.”
“I am touched by your solicitude, milord,” she said in a mocking tone. “Do you have any specific suggestion as to how I might hel– how we might proceed?” She would not say “How I might help you.” That would sound
as if she were a mere assistant. She intended to be an equal partner in the endeavor.
“Having failed to follow the money – if there was, in fact, any money to follow this night – we must try to learn who is distributing it.”
“As I have suggested all along,” she reminded him.
“There are two handles to the affair, one French, one English. I chose the course of following the money from its arrival in this country.”
“And now, having failed in that course, you are ready to take my counsel,” she said.
“A hit. A palpable hit, “ he conceded. Then added mischievously, “And are we any farther ahead?”
They were both silent a moment, thinking. “We don’t know for a certainty that Kirby is bringing the money in, or that every load of silk contains some money if he is the one responsible,” she said.
“Cocker has reason to think he is.” He mentioned the purchase of land and an interest in a tavern. “Who besides the bank, in the neighborhood, handles enough money to be distributing it?”
“Hardy, at the shipyard, is the largest employer, but he pays his men in coin. There are the shops and inns and some large estates, but I cannot think any of them are quite large enough.”
“The bank, then, is the likeliest place.”
She hesitated. “It is hard to believe Mr. Fairmont would do such a thing. He is a pillar of the community.”
Ravencroft strolled to the long table in the center
of
the room where a wine decanter and glasses rested on a silver tray. “May I?” he asked.
She nodded. “Sorry. I should have offered.”
He poured two glasses and handed her one. “Do you know, Miss Bratty, that is the first civil speech you have ever made to me?” He gazed at her a moment, looking past the outré hat and dirty face to the intelligent green eyes that studied him intently. “If we are to work together, we must try to overcome any aversion that has, unfortunately, sprung up between us.”
She accepted the glass, “A toast, then? To the Cougar and the Wolf?” she suggested.
“No, to the Wolf and the Cougar’s successor. The Wolf and the – Cat. No wonder we came to cuffs upon first meeting, wild cat and primitive dog.”
She considered this a moment for hidden insult, then said, “Don’t think I didn’t notice you insist on putting yourself first in this partnership.”
“You don’t miss much. Did you notice that at least I refrained from calling you a kitten?”
“And I refrained from either whelp, cur or pup.”
He made a mocking bow. “At this rate of progress in our rapprochement we shall be bosom bows in no time. Now back to business. Your Mr. Fairmont – a family man, I take it? Law abiding, doer of good, pew near the front of the church?”
“Yes, and no notable expenditures recently.”
“He’d be too cagy for that. If the money is being dispensed locally, I daresay it is going through the bank. Fairmont himself might not be the perpetrator, however. He would have employees.”
“Our bank hardly handles enough money to be a threat to the whole country, though.”
“I see Bransom didn’t explain the pattern of distribution to you. The first notes we heard of – thanks to you – cropped up in Easton. Last week, a flood of them appeared in London and other large cities. Fitz thinks the first ones came in here as a sort of trial run. The local man received the phony bills, which he passed on to – well, customers, whatever.”
“And now the money is coming in at various points?”
“No. Fitz has men working on it day and night. There is no concentration of it on the coast anywhere else but Easton. It has showed up in the larger inland cities – Bath, Cambridge, Manchester, and so on. The money is referred to in criminal circles as “Easton money”. He thinks it all comes in here for distribution. I fancy a couple of those boxes we didn’t follow tonight held forged notes. Miss More’s load was innocent. Our mistake was to follow the wrong trail. Next time, we have men to follow any and all crates.”
“But there might not be any more until the next dark of the moon!”
“I know. So we shall concentrate on finding – or following – tonight’s load. And this time, I shall keep the Cat informed. Agreed?”
She could not quite suppress a gloating smile as she nodded her acquiescence, “Oh certainly. And I shall keep the Wolf informed of anything I learn.”
Ravencroft had hoped Amy would not work on her own if he offered to keep her informed, which he might or might not do, depending on what he learned. He had grave misgivings as to what this headstrong lady might do next.
In an effort to head her off, he said, “What I meant was, I shall keep you informed of what I intend to do, and I trust you will pay me the same courtesy.”
This was even more pleasing to her. “Agreed.” she said. “Mind I take you at your word
as a gentleman! So, what do you plan to do?”
“I believe in looking before I leap. I shall think about it tonight and be in touch with you tomorrow.”