The Counterfeit Lady (8 page)

Lady Bennett gave me a vicious smile. “My sister and her husband are due to arrive in just a few days, probably before we leave for Lord Harwin’s. I look forward to introducing you to them, since you never had the opportunity to meet them in Singapore.”

I gave her a wide-eyed innocent gaze in return. “That’s very kind of you, but they might not approve. Neither Edgar nor I were important enough to know the colony’s rulers.”

Then I sent up a prayer this investigation would be over before the Chattelsfields arrived.

*   *   *

SIR HENRY SAW
us into our rented dwelling and then drove off as soon as we went inside. We’d no sooner shut the door when the footman answered a knock. It was Blackford. “Was the evening instructive?” he asked.

My insides sank with fatigue. I was going to have to learn to get by on very little sleep if I planned to spend any time in my bookshop. “You might as well come upstairs. Sir Henry has file drawers full of ship blueprints. It would take longer than I had to go through them all to see if the stolen plans were mixed in with drawings he has legally.”

Phyllida reached the parlor first and collapsed into a chair. “When will this heat wave end?”

I stood by an open window and fanned myself with my hand. “How did you manage to sit in the same row as us? We didn’t know we were going until this afternoon.”

“After I spoke to you, I found out where you would be seated and exchanged the seats next to you for other tickets. Winky Cavendish was most happy to oblige.”

I resisted the urge to ask who Winky Cavendish was and what Blackford had paid to get him to “oblige.” I was more interested in who Lady Peters was and whether she and the duke were an item. “Have you known Lady Peters long?”

“Actually, I’d known her late husband much longer. He died four years ago, leaving her in a delicate condition. Fortunately for her, the child was male, so she gave birth to the current Lord Peters. She’s a lovely woman. You’ll like her. And she’s frequently squired about by Sir Henry Stanford.”

“So you and she aren’t—”

“Good grief, no, Georgia. You are not coming between me and a lady friend.” He paused for a moment, shook his head, and said, “But that’s not your concern. Worry about catching the burglar and finding the plans for the warship before they end up in German hands.”

I set aside my surprise and relief at his words and said, “I’ve been thinking. The drawings would be easy to pass in the privacy of a carriage before or after a dinner or a theater performance. Then it wouldn’t matter how bulky they are. And have you considered the drawings might come into the embassy wrapped around fish or greens from a nearby shop?” There were too many ways to get those warship plans into the embassy. This was a hopeless enterprise.

“I hope, Georgia, the Germans aren’t as clever as you. We’re watching every time they go to the shops and markets. Their mail is being examined—”

“That’s illegal.”

The duke was in front of me in an instant, leaning forward and glaring into my eyes with a frightening intensity. “The Germans must be stopped from getting their hands on those plans. I don’t exaggerate when I say Britain’s future depends on it. Everything else is secondary.”

I put my hands up, palms out, to stop him, but I immediately bumped up against the front of his coat. The wool was smooth and fine, like thick satin under my fingers. I was close enough to smell smoke and old dust on his fresh linen. And close enough to see in his eyes that arguing would be pointless. “All right. We will stop them. What have you been doing besides bartering theater tickets and reading other people’s mail?”

“Seeing to my interests, and my country’s interests.” Our gazes remained locked.

There was one point Fogarty couldn’t get the answer to and the duke hadn’t told us. “Why is Scotland Yard holding Ken Gattenger for the murder of his wife if they believe the Germans are trying to get their hands on the warship blueprints? That has to argue for a third party.”

“They believe Gattenger was a willing participant in the theft, and Clara’s death was due to her objection to his treason.”

“Kenny wouldn’t have killed Clara,” Phyllida said quietly, staring straight ahead.

Blackford softened his tone. “Perhaps it was an accident. One he couldn’t prevent.”

“Why would he commit treason?” I asked.

“Money. The Germans have offered him much more than Her Majesty for those designs.”

“But the Admiralty has them.”

“He could sell them twice. The Germans were willing to pay for an identical copy slipped to a so-called burglar. Gattenger could make a fortune and not appear to be a traitor. It pains me to tell you, Georgia, but the government found a letter from the Germans offering Gattenger a large sum of money for a set of the drawings. They believe Gattenger agreed. He was seen talking to a German agent two nights before the murder. Gattenger is staying in prison, charged with murder and treason.”

As much as I wanted to doubt the government’s evidence, the set of his jaw deterred me from questioning him further at that moment. I knew the futility of contradicting him when he was in a mood. At least he didn’t appear to like the current situation, either.

Now I knew what the evidence was that Fogarty had heard rumored.

“I don’t believe it.” Phyllida walked out of the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

I turned and looked out the open window. Heat lay on the city like a shroud. There wasn’t a breath of air anywhere. No one would want to do anything more energetic than read, and here I was, away from the bookshop every afternoon. “Will we be going anywhere tomorrow night?”

“I’m certain we will. Why?”

I shrugged, wondering how long I could keep up with both the bookshop and the investigation.

The duke walked up behind me. “Georgina,” he said softly in my ear, “is Lady Bennett’s sister going to present a problem?”

“I hope not. Is the Viscount Chattelsfield truly on the executive council to the governor? I can’t look it up until tomorrow. And is Mr. Monthalf supposed to have been an important enough personage to know him?”

“Yes, but keep on with whatever story you’ve given so far.”

I swung around, my skirt twirling around my legs, and looked up into his eyes. “I’ll have to. Wish me luck.”

His smile was warm as he said, “Luck.”

After the duke left, I went upstairs to undress for bed. When I reached my room, Emma was waiting.

“Here’s your nightgown. And I saw Sumner.”

I was instantly alert. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing to make you jump like that. Sumner is my gentleman caller, which you allow as long as my work doesn’t slip, and he came by while you were out this afternoon. The bookshop is doing splendidly. Watch is being kept on the Germans so closely that a protest has been lodged at Whitehall. Von Steubfeld was told threats had been made against his life by anarchists and extra security was in place for his protection.”

I was only interested in part of what she said. “How splendidly?”

“We’ll see in the morning when you check the ledgers and the receipts. And you’ll want to know that Sir Broderick was visited by a lady who attended the musical evening at Lord Francis’s last night. She asked him if he’d ever heard of this mysterious Mrs. Monthalf.”

Oh, dear. Was Sir Broderick up to date on the character I was playing?

“He told her he knew about Lord Monthalf’s murders in London, and while he knew part of the family had gone to the Far East years ago, he didn’t know anything about what had become of them. Then he questioned her about what she’d learned.” Emma was about to bubble over with excitement, which made her helping me get out of my dress difficult.

I put my hands on her arms. “Tell me what she said, and then help me undress.”

She nodded. “She said you’re an old friend of the Duke of Blackford’s from India, and he is obviously smitten with you.”

I wished that were true.

“They’re buying your story. Your entrance into society is assured. Isn’t that great?”

“Yes.” It would be even better if we quickly found those plans so I could get out of society and back to managing my bookshop.

She slipped off my dress and began to unlace my evening corset. “You don’t sound very pleased.”

“Sir Broderick and the duke appear to have forgotten I have a whole life that doesn’t revolve around espionage.”

The yank Emma gave to the laces told me whose side she was on. “You’ve forgotten two things. You dragged Phyllida into this by promising to find her cousin’s killer.” The corset was tight enough to make breathing difficult. “And you have very good friends who know the business and will take good care of your bookshop. Trust them.”

“I’m trying. I really am. But I can’t do anyone any good if you break my ribs.”

Emma considered for a moment whether I’d learned my lesson before she loosened my corset strings.

T
HE
next morning I was up, dressed, and eating a light breakfast when one of the maids brought me a note addressed to Georgina Monthalf. I set down my tea and opened it.

Georgia Fenchurch, I know what you’re up to.

Stop immediately or I will give away your identity.

I glanced around the empty dining room as if the writer were lurking in my house. Blast it. Someone knew my real name and my role in the investigation. I’d been careful to keep my real life separate from the people I was investigating, but someone had found out.

Sir Jonah Denby, who knew my real name and that I was involved in the search, could be the author, but he was supposed to be on our side. I hadn’t heard from Sir Broderick on my request for information on Sir Jonah. I needed to telephone him from the bookshop.

Or someone had found out from Madame Leclerc, but who would go to all that trouble? And what about the German spies? Were they onto me already?

I considered my options. If I told Emma and Phyllida, Emma would shrug it off, but Phyllida would immediately insist we stop before we were hurt.

The worst the writer threatened to do was give away my real identity to everyone involved in the investigation. The only way I could imagine proceeding with this investigation was to wait to see what happened.

There was no point in telling anyone and upsetting them before it became necessary.

I stuffed the note up my sleeve with my handkerchief and finished my breakfast in time to travel with Emma to the bookshop.

We took a different route than the morning before, which was Emma’s way of assuring we learned every street and alley and knew how to reach someplace safe if we had to escape an attack. On the way there, I told her what I’d learned about the baron and Lady Bennett going to Lord Harwin’s.

“Could someone else be carrying the plans to Germany for the baron? Someone we’re not watching?” Emma asked.

“Such as the Dowager Duchess of Bad Ramshed or someone in her party? I think the duke’s going to learn more about that today, leaving us free to worry about the bookshop.”

“You don’t have to worry about the bookshop, Georgia. You have very good friends who are looking out for you.”

I nodded. She was right. But I still worried.

It turned out I had good reason to. As soon as we opened the door, a half-dozen customers descended on us. Their spokesman, a heavyset woman in black with a choleric face and sweat already running down her cheeks, said, “Miss Fenchurch, why aren’t you selling the two-shilling copies of
The Ruined Castle
by Mrs. Hepplewhite?”

The cheaply bound two-shilling editions were our best sellers, especially ones written by the gothic and adventure writers. “We are, Mrs. Appleton. Or we will be.”

“Other shops had them on the shelves yesterday afternoon. If they hadn’t sold out, we’d not be here today.”

How many customers had I lost by not being here yesterday afternoon? “Just a moment. Let me check in the back.”

I walked to the office, the half-dozen customers following. Two large boxes sat on the floor, unchecked against the inventory still attached to one of the boxes. I opened them and found Mrs. Hepplewhite’s newest on top.

I grabbed a dozen. “Here we are. I’ll take these up to the counter and we can take care of you immediately.”

“You’ll have to do better than this next time if you want to keep our business.” Nevertheless, Mrs. Appleton led the parade to the counter.

“You’re right. I do. And I will.”

I’d almost reached the counter when Grace walked in. I set her to checking the inventory in the boxes and then getting the books shelved. The women left with their purchases, still grumbling but not as loudly.

I looked at Emma and sighed. “Don’t worry?”

“We’ll get it straightened out.”

“Get what straightened out?” Frances asked as she entered the shop.

I took a deep breath so I wouldn’t yell at her. “When orders come in from the popular publishers, we need to check the inventory lists and shelve the books as quickly as possible. Most of the time, unfortunately, they come in the afternoon, when Emma and I have to work on the investigation. Maybe if you put Grace onto that chore while you wait on customers, it won’t put too much of a strain on you.”

Frances stepped back and folded her arms over her chest, her hat still perched on her gray topknot. “Grace had to do something for Lord Barnwood yesterday afternoon, or I would have started her on those boxes in the back.”

“Next time you’re in that situation, call Sir Broderick and have him send someone to help you. Quickly getting new stock of these big sellers on the shelves is important.”

“Everything around here is important, or so you tell me. If you don’t like the job I’m doing, just say so.” She was nearly spitting out the words and still dressed to go out.

I knew none of this was her fault. More selfishly, I couldn’t work on this investigation without her good-natured help in running the bookshop. “Frances, I’m less familiar with the character I’m pretending to be than you are with running a bookshop. I know I’m putting a lot on your shoulders, but you have good instincts and you’re doing well. Much better than I am. Don’t think I’m not grateful.” I lifted my hands palm upward. “But today I’m tired and confused and so far, our investigation hasn’t gone anywhere. We’re being fed lies and half-truths and gossip.”

The anger left her eyes, replaced by concern. No matter which members of the Archivist Society were actively involved in the investigation, we were all distressed when things weren’t going well and proud when we succeeded. “What’s happened?”

“The baron is leaving with his lady friend in a few days for a house party at an estate in Gloucestershire. His lady friend lied about spending the afternoon with Clara Gattenger on the day she died. Ken Gattenger lied about arguing with Clara and the fire in the study fireplace on a hot evening. The police have evidence Gattenger was selling a copy of his warship plans to the Germans and there’s gossip he’s short of money. The police think Clara died in an accident while trying to stop Gattenger from handing off the ship design. And if the baron told the truth about not leaving England in the foreseeable future, he doesn’t plan to touch the stolen plans himself. That means they could be handed off to anyone.”

Frances nodded. “Oh, dear. You do have your hands full. How is Phyllida handling the possibility that her cousin was killed by her husband?”

“Badly. She refuses to consider it.”

“What are you going to do?”

I sighed. “The only thing I can do. Keep watching the baron and his friends and hope someone slips. And try to get someone to tell me the truth.”

The bell jingled over the door, marking the arrival of more customers for
The Ruined Castle
.

We ran from one task to another, one customer to another, for hours. I took a few minutes off to look up the Viscount Chattelsfield and Sir Jonah Denby. They were who they were reported to be. I didn’t find the time to telephone Sir Broderick to discover if he’d learned anything more revealing about Sir Jonah.

About the time business slowed down in the shop, Blackford, along with Sumner, climbed out of his plain coach, the driver and footman dressed as workmen. “I see you managed to awaken early again this morning,” Blackford said as soon as he walked in.

Ignoring him, Emma set down her duster and walked over to speak to Sumner. The ruined side of Sumner’s face was exposed to view, since he wore the collarless shirt and cap of a workman. Grace leaned on her broom and Frances paused behind the counter. Neither reacted to Sumner’s ugly scar, as if they were accustomed to seeing his face.

“I’d appreciate not being kept up so late, Your Grace,” I replied. “What brings you here?”

He held up a single piece of paper. “I thought you might help me with this.”

I walked over and looked at the sheet. It contained names, addresses, and descriptions of three burglars Fogarty had gleaned from his friends at Scotland Yard after showing them the drawing Gattenger made of his attacker. “I’d be glad to, but why aren’t Fogarty and his friends at Scotland Yard checking this out?”

“These men, and their friends and family, can spot a bobby, or a retired sergeant, at a hundred yards. We are obviously not with the police.”

There was no way you could disguise Blackford’s aristocratic ancestry. “That’s true.”

“Let’s go.”

I caught Emma grabbing Sumner’s hand and giving it a squeeze. He didn’t pull away or look shocked before he turned to join Blackford. Good for her. I had no idea if Blackford paid Sumner well enough to support a wife, but I wished her well. Sumner was a decent, if frightening-looking, man.

When had they had time to build a closeness? I’d spent more time with Blackford than Emma had with Sumner, and we certainly weren’t more than associates. I wished our relationship were different, but that was impossible. He was a duke.

And all he cared about was finding a set of ship blueprints.

“I’ll be back shortly,” I said to Frances and set my straw boater on my head. It wasn’t every day I hunted a thief with the duke. The last time, I’d nearly died. I took a breath and straightened my shoulders as I walked out the door. I’d left my white cotton gloves from the bookshop on; they weren’t elegant but they’d do for this trip.

We rode past the East End tenements into slightly better, newer suburbs. We stopped on a cracked and worn street near a factory where laundry hanging on the line caught the soot from the smokestacks. “Stay here, Smith. Sumner, take the alley. The house should be the fifth one down.”

Then the duke helped me from the carriage and we walked down the narrow gravel road off to one side. The dead-end lane was too narrow to turn a carriage around. One side was the blank wall of the factory; the other, crowded with small brick row houses. Grimy children stopped their play in the dirt to silently watch us.

We stepped onto the stoop of the fifth house and Blackford banged on the door. It was opened by a tired woman with stringy hair and a dirty apron. “Go away,” she said and started to shut the door.

Blackford stuck his polished boot in the way and said, “Jeremy North.”

“’E’s not here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you like. ’E’s not here. ’E’s at work.”

“The police say he doesn’t work.”

“Well, they know sod all, don’t they?”

I thought I’d better step in before Mrs. North, or whoever she was, took a swipe at Blackford. “How long has he had this job?”

“Three weeks this time, so don’t go messin’ it up for ’im.”

“What’s he doing?” My natural curiosity showed in my voice.

She seemed more willing to speak to me than the duke. “Stokin’ the boilers for that lot over the wall.”

That had to be horrid work in this weather. “So he’s been too tired to get into any mischief in the evening.”

She nodded. “’E comes home, eats, and falls into bed. In this heat, with them boilers, ’e can’t do nothin’ else.”

“Come along, Your Grace. He’s not the one you’re looking for,” I said and turned away.

“What’s this?” the woman asked. “‘Yer Grace’? Why’d a lord be looking for Jeremy?”

I faced her again. “There was a burglary and a woman was murdered. Jeremy North is suspected of the crime.”

She shook her head. “It was never Jeremy. He could never hurt a fly. And the last three weeks, he’s been shovelin’ coal in this heat. ’E hasn’t the strength. Talk to Mick Snelling. ’E’d be the man you want.”

I knew Mick Snelling was another name on our list of three. “Why?”

“’E’s been braggin’ about making a real score. But ’e’s lyin’ low since he did somethin’ he said was an accident. ’E’s afraid to collect ’is coins from the man who ’ired ’im ’cause the bobbies are everywhere around the gentleman.”

I slipped the drawing Ken Gattenger had done of his attacker out of my bag and showed it to the woman.

“Aye, that’s ’im. Where’d you get that?”

“It’s Mick Snelling?”

“Aye.”

I glanced up at Blackford. He nodded and held out his fist, knuckles up, to the woman. She held out both hands.

“God bless you,” I said and turned away.

“Bless you,” the woman said, her voice suddenly cheerful.

“How much did you give her?” I asked when we’d all climbed back into the carriage.

“A few shillings. We may need her information again some time.”

“You believed her?” I had, but the duke was much less trusting.

“North’s alibi is easily checked. Snelling has been missing from his lodgings for the past few days, but his belongings are still in his room. Something must have frightened him to make him flee.”

I nodded. Blackford had either been in contact with Scotland Yard or he’d talked to Adam Fogarty, the retired police sergeant in the Archivist Society. “What’s our next step?”

“One of his mates let slip that Snelling has a sister near the docks. She lives above the Crown and Anchor, and I think we ought to go visiting.” The duke tapped his weighted cane.

The area around the docks was more dangerous than any other part of the East End. “Sumner, are you armed?” I asked.