The Vanishing Thief (17 page)

“How many rare book collectors have you ever seen come to this flat rather than the shop?”

We stared at each other as the temperature in the room chilled. “None.”

* * *

LORD HANCOCK ARRIVED
the next morning as soon as I flipped over the Open sign. Walking to the counter, he laid a wrapped parcel on the smooth wooden surface and looked at me expectantly.

At least I had no reason to have worried about Phyllida's safety. As I unwrapped the package, I said, “My aunt said you'd be here first thing this morning.”

“Phyllida Monthalf is your aunt?”

“Yes.” I looked at him suspiciously.

“We introduced ourselves last evening. Is she a member of the mad Monthalfs?”

They'd earned that reputation long before her brother had inflicted his depravity on the city. “A cadet branch. They're only slightly mad.”

I looked down at the book I'd unwrapped. Definitely old and in good condition. Damp marks and a moldy cover, but no bookworm holes. “How much do you want?”

“One hundred pounds.”

He was madder than the Monthalfs. “It's not worth more than ten.” I'd go up to fifteen, thinking I could eventually sell it for twenty. One hundred? Never.

“It's the subject matter. It's an alchemist book of formulas.”

“I don't sell rare books on subject, but on the worth of the book to a collector. I'm sorry, Lord Hancock, but we're too far apart to try to negotiate.”

“You won't reconsider?”

“Ten pounds. That's the best I can do.” I hoped he wouldn't take it. I didn't want a book on alchemy in my shop. I doubted people still believed such things were possible, but I didn't want to take any chances.

He rewrapped his book with rapid, jerky movements. “You'll be sorry,” he mumbled.

I hoped I'd misunderstood him. “What did you say?”

“You'll be sorry. One day, you'll all be sorry.” His package tucked under one arm, he stormed out of the shop, nearly knocking Frances Atterby over as she arrived to travel with me to visit Anne Drake.

I was already sorry. Nicholas Drake was dead, and I had to tell his widow.

* * *

I LEFT FRANCES
later that morning dealing with Anne Drake's grief. Now that she'd been forced to admit she wasn't her sister, Edith Carter, she had no reason to hide either her identity or her love for her husband. Her carefully crafted world of lies, and the need for them, fell apart with Drake's death. She broke down into a gasping, soggy mess.

Frances ordered Anne's maid to bring heavily sugared tea and laudanum. Years of managing the family hotel with her husband had left Frances with the ability to handle any crisis, no matter how difficult the person or the situation. For now she sat with Anne, holding the new widow against her well-padded bosom as she rocked and crooned. Promising to do everything I could to find justice for Drake, I departed in haste.

My guilt followed me to Lady Westover's. When I marched into her greenhouse and stared at her, she looked up from her spraying and said, “You're in a temper.”

“I've just come from Nicholas Drake's wife, informing her she's a widow.”

She set the sprayer down and walked over to me, stripping off her large canvas gloves. Taking my hands, she said, “I am so sorry. That can't have been easy for you. Always seeing your parents' death and Sir Broderick's accident whenever you have to deliver bad news.”

“No, I just—”

“Georgia, I am far too old to be put off by your denials.”

I pulled my hands away and studied the terra-cotta tile floor, fighting the tears that threatened to rend my heart.

“It's been a dozen years since you lost your family and Sir Broderick ended up in a wheeled chair because of his injuries. You've grown up, but you haven't lost your pain.”

I gritted my teeth. Swallowing my sobs, I forced my voice into something approaching normality. “I have to give Nicholas Drake justice. Then maybe I won't grieve so much because I failed my family.”

She took my hands again. “I know, Georgia. I know.”

We stood in silence while the early spring sunshine shone through the glass panes, heating the air around us. The fragrance of moist soil and delicate blooms filled the air. This room always helped to ease my wounded heart. Once again I was reminded of how much time Lady Westover spent here on the anniversaries of events she wished had never happened.

I helped her off with her hat. “You must not tell anyone but your grandson that Drake is dead. We're keeping it a secret for now so that the killer is the only suspect who knows.”

“All right,” she said with a feeble smile but a businesslike tone. “What do you plan to do now?”

“I need to speak to Lady Dutton-Cox again.”

“No, Georgia.”

“She believes her daughter was murdered. I believe Drake was murdered. If they both died by the same hand, we have to stop the killer.”

“If. Don't you hear yourself?” Lady Westover shook her poufy gray à la concierge hairdo. I knew if I tried such a move, my hair would be around my shoulders in an instant. A knot worn on top of the head might be fashionable, but I wasn't born to be fashionable.

Drawing my attention back to her words, I said, “You're afraid your friend is behind Drake's death, aren't you?”

She took a half step back from me and looked out the window at the blooms in the garden. “I know you were terribly rude to her last time I took you to see Lady Dutton-Cox. I don't want a repeat.”

“I only want to know if she or her husband received blackmail threats because of letters their daughter Victoria had written. Or if they were blackmailed due to something else entirely,” I added, not wanting to miss any possibility. I knew there wouldn't be a third chance to question her.

“What will that prove?” Lady Westover's blue eyes sharpened inside her scowl.

“Something Lady Dutton-Cox's husband said makes me suspect Victoria's death has nothing to do with Drake blackmailing them. Drake's thefts are part of a pattern, and the reason why he was killed in a fire.”

“Someone wanted to burn the letters they couldn't get away from Mr. Drake.” She nodded and walked away from me, sliding out of her enveloping apron. “I hope we can assure Honoria Dutton-Cox that her letters have been burned.”

“If they were in that house, they were destroyed.” I helped her out of her canvas duster.

“
If
they were? That's not much comfort, Georgia.”

“That's all I can give at the moment.” I went to follow Lady Westover into the main part of the town house, but she stopped me in the doorway.

“I've visited Lady Dutton-Cox since you saw her. She's grown more reclusive. More fragile. I also lost my favorite child, and I thought for a long time I would lose my mind. Perhaps I did. Honoria was there for me. I won't have you making her life more difficult. Do you understand?”

“I have to stop a murderer.”

“Not at the expense of making Honoria Dutton-Cox suffer more for something she didn't do.”

I nodded. I understood Lady Westover's determination to spare her friend, but I couldn't chance letting a murderer go free. “This is the only way she can see her daughter's murderer punished.”

Lady Westover looked at me and shook her head. “That's not what she wants. Or needs.” Nevertheless, she called to her maid to get her ready to go out.

Chapter Fourteen

L
ADY
Westover decreed the day was suitable for walking, so we arrived by foot at the Dutton-Cox town house. We found Lady Dutton-Cox in her morning room with a piece of half-finished embroidery on her lap. She immediately sent the footman away to have someone bring us tea and bade us sit, all without rising from her chair.

“How are you enjoying your stay in London, Miss Peabody?” she asked as soon as we were settled. She took a sip from the nearly full teacup on the table at her side, but I saw no sign of teapot or sugar or even a spoon. I wanted to get close enough to smell the brew in her cup. Brandy, most likely.

The skin beneath her eyes looked faintly bruised, as if she hadn't had a restful night's sleep in some time. Her face looked puffy, and she gazed at me without appearing to really focus on my face. And it was early afternoon. I glanced at Lady Westover and she threw me a warning look.

I managed a few bland comments about London, the weather, and the traffic one saw at all hours of the day. “For a while I was afraid to send any letters home. I kept hearing stories of Mr. Drake, that friend of your daughter Victoria, stealing letters and blackmailing the sender.”

Lady Dutton-Cox looked me over, scorn in her expression. “You have nothing to worry about. It's only rich, beautiful girls like Victoria and Elizabeth who need to worry about Drake stealing their letters.”

Silence fell as the tea tray was carried in. Lady Westover fixed tea for herself and me. When she offered to pour some for Lady Dutton-Cox, the woman smiled slightly and shook her head, sipping from her own teacup.

The silence lengthened. I glanced at Lady Westover, who narrowed her eyes before taking a sip of tea. I needed to know if Drake had stolen letters from Lady Dutton-Cox or her daughter, and this brittle quiet was doing no good. “Did Drake steal any of Victoria's letters and then try to blackmail her?”

“You certainly are a nosy young woman.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“Then he had obtained letters you wrote?”

“I rarely write letters. Hadn't you noticed? I'm a recluse. It would hardly do to be a recluse and then send letters all over the isle.” She drank the rest of the liquid in her teacup in one gulp and then swayed slightly in her chair.

“So Mr. Drake didn't blackmail anyone in this house?” I must have sounded amazed, because the woman laughed at me.

“Not in this house.” She rang for her servants. One appeared immediately. “My teapot.”

“Do you think . . . ,” the footman began and quickly made his voice fade.

“My. Teapot.”

He disappeared and was replaced by a maid, who poured her mistress a cupful from a blue-flowered teapot and then left.

“Honoria, do you want us to leave?” Lady Westover asked.

Before I could glare at her, Lady Dutton-Cox said, “I don't care. I haven't cared since my beautiful Victoria died before she became a duchess. She should have been a duchess. It's not fair. Nothing matters anymore.”

Lady Westover rose and crossed over to her friend. There was no place to sit near our hostess, since her chair was in a corner with tables standing sentinel on both sides of her. I pulled over a chair for Lady Westover to sit facing her friend. She was more likely to get the answers I needed. And I had failed twice today in being sympathetic. I was completely ashamed of my lack of tact. Not ashamed enough to stop this investigation, but embarrassed by my dearth of compassion.

“Honoria, look at me,” Lady Westover said. “You have other children. You have grandchildren. Don't they matter to you?”

“My son has taken his family to the country and refuses to see me or let me see my grandchildren until I behave the way he wants. He says I have no shame.” She gulped from her teacup.

Lady Westover patted her free hand. “I don't expect you to put away the pain of Victoria's death. That's impossible. I know. But Victoria wouldn't want you to quit living. She was happy and carefree and would want you to enjoy life.”

Lady Dutton-Cox looked away, but she set down the teacup with a clatter.

I was only trying to be helpful when I said, “Your husband is beside himself with sorrow over Victoria's death, with the blackmail and your melancholy. Talk to him. Share your grief.”

The lady took a quick drink, nearly spilling the liquid in her hurry to pick up the teacup again. Lady Westover looked daggers at me.

“Oh, he's beside himself all right. Elizabeth always was his favorite. He had to pay a pretty penny to Drake to keep him quiet about her letters until we married her off to the viscount. Not our problem anymore.” She wagged a finger at me and then rang for the servants. “Bloody Drake. Bloody Elizabeth. Bloody servants.” Her voice raised in pitch with every word.

A footman entered and she yelled, “My teapot!”

“Milady . . .”

“My teapot, you fool!”

A maid returned with it a moment later and poured. She hadn't left the room before Lady Dutton-Cox took a gulp.

“And you might get her lady's maid,” Lady Westover said to the servant's retreating back.

I knew I only had moments to learn anything else. “Who did Lady Elizabeth write?”

“Bloody Drake. Bloody shisters fighting over the same man. Elizabeth, the little fool, wrote compromising letters to Drake. Victoria would have won. She was the prettier. But then Blackford ruined it all. Ruined it all. And Blackford's bloody sister, Margaret, killed my baby.” Tears ran down the woman's pudgy face.

Lady Westover ran a gloved hand over Lady Dutton-Cox's brow and murmured comforting sounds.

I had to ask. “Does Elizabeth's husband know?”

“'Coursh he does. He's a swine. Refused to meet Drake privately. Jush what Elizabeth deserves. And Drake, too.” She gulped down the rest of the contents of her teacup before it slipped from her hand. Then she started mumbling as her lady's maid dashed in.

I tried one last time. “Lady Dutton-Cox, talk to your husband. He's in mourning, too, for Victoria. Let him share your grief.”

She looked in my general direction with unfocused eyes and said, “Go to hell.”

Lady Westover marched past me on her way to the door. For an old lady, she moved fast. I didn't catch up with her until we were outside the house.

“Lady Westover . . .”

“Good day, Miss Fenchurch. I'd almost forgotten that you are not one of us.” Her nose in the air, she stormed off. I'd lost an ally, and it was my own clumsy fault.

I stood on the sidewalk, looking from the house to Lady Westover's retreating back and feeling miserable. I didn't want to hurt anyone, but I'd spent the day ripping people's hearts from their chests and waltzing on them. Sadly, Nicholas Drake wasn't the only victim of this abduction and murder.

Unfortunately, my day of treading on the feelings of others wasn't finished. I still had to find out if there was any merit in what Jacob had said at our meeting the night before about the Earl of Waxpool. I couldn't ignore the earl's possible involvement. And the best way to learn the truth was to revisit Lady Julia, his granddaughter.

When I arrived at their home, I was shown into the same cheery morning room as before. Lady Julia set down a heavy history tome to greet me and took off her pince-nez spectacles, leaving her squinting and with a mark on the bridge of her nose. Standing to greet me, she said, “How can I help you, Miss Peabody?”

“It's about your father—”

She braced herself so she wouldn't back away from me. “He's—he's in the south of France.”

“I know. Your grandfather told me he sent him there. After the blackmailing started.”

“He shouldn't have committed anything to paper. It was too dangerous.” She wrung her hands.

“It's hard to keep track of the money otherwise, I would think.”

“Who cared how much he paid that odious Drake? That horrid man sold my father's words to the highest bidder. That hurt.”

“Drake sold your father's papers?”

“No, he bought them.” She froze in place. “What exactly did my grandfather tell you?”

“That your father stole from the family accounts.”

She smiled for an instant as she looked away. “Oh. Yes. That's right.”

“Except your grandfather lied to me. Look, I don't care if your father ran with the Prince of Wales's crowd. Heaven knows there's enough scandals there to keep several blackmailers busy. I need to know what your family was being blackmailed over so I can judge the likelihood that it would drive a respectable family to kidnapping and murder.”

She leaned forward as she faced me. “Oh, it wouldn't. There'd be no reason for us to attack Mr. Drake.”

“Really? Why?”

“Why should I answer you?”

“Because I'm a member of the Archivist Society and we try to be careful of reputations.” And because I wanted to know who killed Mr. Drake.

Lady Julia paced in front of the fire. Finally, she stopped and said, “You're a well-read woman. I expect it has made you broad-minded.”

“I hope I am. Unless the subject is murder. I will not condone killing another human being.”

“Oh, no. But my father has a secret. One that is considered illegal in this country. That's why Grandpapa sent him to the south of France. They're more forward-thinking there.”

“And this stopped Drake's blackmail?”

“Yes. The scandal doesn't affect the rest of us, you see. Once Drake was convinced Grandpapa wouldn't pay to keep it secret, and my father was out of danger of being arrested, the letters no longer had any impact.”

I looked at her blankly. How could it not affect the rest of them? So far I'd not heard anything that removed her grandfather from suspicion of hiring thugs to eliminate Drake from threatening his family. “I don't understand.”

“There's a new play on the London stage.
The Importance of Being Earnest
, by Oscar Wilde. Have you seen it?”

“No. Is it good?” What did that have to do with—? Then I remembered the rumors of an upcoming trial involving Oscar Wilde and the Marquis of Queensberry, whose son was Wilde's lover. The son had reportedly hurried off to France to avoid arrest and the brewing scandal.

But that affair was illegal. The church pronounced it a sin. And yet her father—oh, dear.

“I can see by your face you understand why Mr. Drake attempted blackmail on my father, and the contents of the letters my father wrote,” Lady Julia said.

“Even if your father stays safely in France for the time being, someday your grandfather will die and your father will inherit the title. If he returns to England?” I let the question hang in the air.

“Either the law will have changed by then, or something can be worked out to let my father stay in France and my brother inherit the title and everything entailed to the earldom. It's not a problem.” She shrugged, moving her hands in an open circle. “Well, it's one that will someday be ironed out by solicitors. It's certainly not one that would have any of us paying good money to hire thugs to go after a blackmailer. What good would that do?”

I nodded and turned to go.

“Miss Peabody.”

I turned back.

“Please don't repeat this. I'm trusting on your discretion in keeping my father's secret.”

A lot of members of the aristocracy appeared willing to accept my promises of silence concerning their confidences. The Archivist Society had an excellent reputation. I was discovering just how good this reputation was.

I only had time to walk the length of Hyde Park Place once before returning to the bookshop, and I had no more success than on any other day since the first one. When I entered the shop, I nearly ran into Inspector Grantham in the doorway.

“Inspector, what can I do for you?”

“It's what I can do for you. The details of Lupton's murder a week after your parents'. I reviewed the file. There was no sign of a break-in, but it was business hours and the front door was unlocked. Lupton was strangled. It didn't appear that he put up any kind of a struggle. While the antiquarian books were ransacked, no cash was taken and his records indicated none of the old books were missing.”

Grantham lowered his voice. “A man was seen walking away from the shop just before others walked in and found the body.”

“This man. What did he look like?”

“Well dressed. Prosperous looking. Tall, average build, blond hair. Carried a newspaper folded under his arm. Inquiries led nowhere. We had a dead body with no motive and no suspects.”

“Anything else?” I was holding my breath, hoping someone noticed something I hadn't.

“No. I'm sorry there's so little I can tell you. Lupton lived an ordinary life and he didn't die due to a robbery.”

I shook my head. He could say the same for my parents. “No, you've told me a lot. The man who killed my parents killed Denis Lupton.”