by Amanda Quick
She pondered that briefly. “But he certainly does not fit the description we have been given of the mysterious Mr. Jones. Mr. Elsworth certainly does not walk with a limp. He also lacks the excess of whiskers and the spectacles that were described to us.”
“All of those attributes could be affected by a skilled actor, and it is clear that Elsworth has a great talent for the stage.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Good day to you, Mr. Spraggett.” Caroline swept into the office ahead of Adam, trying to ignore the strong odor of stale cigar smoke. “I would like you to meet my very good friend, Mr. Hardesty.”
“Mrs. Fordyce.” Spraggett hastily stubbed out his cigar and surged to his feet. “This is a surprise.” He nodded at Adam, peering at him from beneath his eyeshade. “Mr. Hardesty. An, uh, unexpected pleasure, sir.”
“Spraggett.” Adam closed the glass-paned office door with a solid kerchunk, leaned back against it and folded his arms. “Never had the opportunity to visit the offices of a newspaper publisher. So this is the source of all those sensation pieces one reads in the Flying Intelligencer.”
Spraggett glowered through his spectacles. He was a wiry, balding man of middle years who exuded the nervous energy of a terrier. His hands were permanently stained with ink. A number of dirty coffee cups and half-eaten pastries and sandwiches littered the place.
“We take our responsibility to keep the public informed very seriously at this paper, sir,” Spraggett declared.
“Do you, indeed?” Adam’s mouth twisted in cold amusement. “The piece on the murdered mediums in this morning’s edition was certainly revealing.”
“Especially the part describing how a watch with Mr. Hardesty’s name on it was found at the scene of the second crime,” Caroline said.
“Facts are facts.”
“Indeed.” Caroline whipped open the copy of the paper she had brought along and read aloud. “ ‘The noted author claimed that she was secluded together with Mr. Hardesty in a private location at the time of the murder. It was clear to this correspondent that an air of romantic intimacy surrounded the pair, leaving no doubt as to the nature of their association. It would seem that fiction and reality have become closely entwined for Mrs. Fordyce.’ ”
“It’s unfortunate, Mrs. Fordyce, but you and Mr. Hardesty have become news.” Spraggett assumed a virtuous air. “That is what we publish here at the Intelligencer.”
“You also publish my novels, sir.” Caroline tossed the paper down onto the desk. “At least until the conclusion of my current contract. After that I may decide to look for another publisher.”
Spraggett’s voice jumped in alarm. “Now, Mrs. Fordyce, you must not take that piece Otford wrote personally.”
“I do take it personally.” She dumped a pile of newspapers off a chair and sat down, adjusting her skirts with a flourish. “I will not forget that I was made the subject of a great scandal in this very newspaper the next time you wish me to sign a contract for a new novel, Mr. Spraggett.”
“What’s this? Have you had another offer from Tillotsons’s Fiction Bureau? Damned upstart syndicators. I vow, if they try to steal you away from this paper, I’ll sue.”
“Perhaps Tillotsons would be more inclined to treat my reputation with proper respect.”
Spraggett bristled. “What do you expect me to do when every other paper in town is printing the news of your connection to Mr. Hardesty and the murders? I can hardly ignore the situation, given that I am publishing The Mysterious Gentleman.”
“You may not have been able to ignore it, but you could have avoided the colorful references to an intimate love bower and the delicate blush that stained my cheeks when I was seen leaving the murder house in the company of Mr. Hardesty.”
“Now, Mrs. Fordyce—”
“The least you can do is compensate me in some small way for the manner in which you are using me to sell papers.”
Spraggett scowled. “If you are suggesting that I pay you an additional fee for your novel, I would remind you that we have a contract, madam.”
“Calm yourself, sir.” She adjusted her gloves. “I am not asking for more money. What we want from you is some of your professional expertise and advice.”
Spraggett looked wary. “I beg your pardon?”
She reached into the pocket of her gown to retrieve the slip of paper on which she had sketched the printer’s mark. “I noticed this little figure of a griffin and the letter B on a stock certificate. Mr. Hardesty and I would like to know if you can identify the printer.”
“Huh.” Curiosity replaced the caution in Spraggett’s face. He took the paper from her, studied it for a few seconds and then frowned. “Saw it on a stock certificate, you say?”
“Yes. Do you recognize it?”
“Bassingthorpe used this mark for years. He did beautiful work in the old days, but there were always the rumors.”
“Bassingthorpe,” Adam said, frowning slightly. “Thought he’d retired.”
“I was under the same impression.” Spraggett glanced again at the certificate. “But that is most certainly his mark.”
“What were the rumors?” Caroline asked.
Spraggett shrugged. “It was said that if you happened to need a handsome certificate attesting to a stint in a medical school or a degree in law, whether or not you had actually attended the college in question, you could purchase a very satisfactory one from Bassingthorpe.”
“I see.” Caroline rose. “Thank you, Mr. Spraggett.”
“Hold on here.” Spraggett jumped to his feet again. “What’s this all about? Is Bassingthorpe connected to the murders in some way?”
“We don’t know,” Adam said, opening the door for Caroline. “But if I were you, I would not bother to send a correspondent out to find him.”
“Why not?”
“Unless Bassingthorpe has changed his ways, which is doubtful, you will not get any information out of him. From what I have heard, he did not achieve his reputation by being indiscreet.”
Adam ushered Caroline through the opening and closed the door before Spraggett could ask any more questions.
Out in the hallway, Caroline looked at him with great interest. “What, exactly, is the nature of Mr. Bassingthorpe’s reputation?”
“It was said that Bassingthorpe not only created the occasional fraudulent medical license, but that he could create reproductions of banknotes that were indistinguishable from the real thing.”
“In that case, I can see why he would be a very cautious man.” She hesitated. “But if Mr. Bassingthorpe is not given to gossiping about his clients, how do you intend to persuade him to talk to us?”
“Bassingthorpe was still actively working when I was selling secrets on the streets. I did him a couple of favors. If we’re fortunate, he will remember them.”
“We must go to see him immediately.”
Adam shook his head. “One does not show up unannounced on Bassingthorpe’s doorstep. There are certain proprieties to be observed. I will send a message to him. With a bit of luck, he will agree to meet with me at a place and time of his choosing.”
TWENTY-NINE
The interior of the drawing room never failed to amuse Adam. It was lush, overwrought and extravagant beyond belief. The decorator had obviously felt free to cast aside the restraints of good taste in favor of dramatic impact.
Red was the predominant color. The massive sofa and chairs were upholstered in crimson silk. Vermilion velvet draperies pooled on the floors in front of the windows. The carpet was patterned in scarlet and gold.
As was the case in so many homes across the breadth and width of the nation, a large, ornately framed photograph of the queen, dressed in her perpetual mourning, hung in a place of importance over the hearth. But the theme of the other pictures that cluttered the walls was quite different. Every painting featured a bold knight in gleaming armor who was in the process of rescuing—or being rescued by—a lovely woman clad only in the filmiest of clothing
.
Florence Stotley was very fond of chivalric motifs.
Florence was a pleasantly plump, gray-haired woman who was rapidly approaching her sixth decade. With her warm, bright eyes, dimpled features and charming eccentricities, she could have been mistaken for someone’s beloved grandmother or doting great-aunt. Few would believe that she had made her fortune as the proprietor of one of London’s most exclusive brothels.
She was officially retired now, but she continued to employ her entrepreneurial talents in a variety of profitable ways. Any number of people had underestimated Florence Stotley over the years, Adam reflected. But he had known her since his days on the street, and he had nothing but the most profound respect for her.
In a sense, they were business associates, but the focus of their interests varied slightly. While he concerned himself with the affairs of those in Society these days, Florence continued to steep herself in the murky activities of those who operated in London’s underworld.
It was not uncommon for one of them to call upon the other for assistance. After all, the doings of the rich and powerful in Society intersected with the business activities of their counterparts in the city’s less legitimate spheres far more frequently than most people wished to acknowledge.
“How delightful to see you again, Adam.” Florence poured tea from a fanciful silver pot designed to resemble a flamboyant dragon. “It has been some time since we last visited. All is well with Julia and the children, I trust?”
“They are happy and in excellent health, thank you.” Adam settled into a large wingback chair and stretched out his legs. “At the moment, my sister is busily engaged in the task of outdoing herself with another memorable ball.”
“I’m sure she will produce a spectacular event this year.” Florence chuckled and handed him a cup of tea. “The talk of her great success with the Camelot theme last spring went on for weeks after the event.”
“She was greatly indebted to you for the inspiration.” He examined the delicately rendered illustrations of scenes of the Round Table on his cup. “New china, I see.”
“Yes. I am pleased with it.” Florence arranged her skirts and looked expectant. “Now, then, I am always delighted to have you call, Adam, as you well know. I did get your message asking for assistance in locating the medium’s missing housekeeper and I assure you I am making inquiries, but thus far I have not had any luck.”
“If anyone can find Bess Whaley, it will be you, Florence. I have complete confidence in your sources. But as it happens, I am here on another matter tonight. I did not want to send a message in this instance. Thought it should be handled personally.”
Florence nodded. “I understand. What is this other item of business?”
“I wish to convey a message to that old forger Bassingthorpe. At one time he was a client of yours. Are you still in touch?”
Florence smiled fondly. “Of course. He is a friend as well as a former customer. I will let him know that you would like to speak with him.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that all?”
“For now,” Adam said.
Florence poured more tea. “Very odd, this affair of the murdered mediums. There are rumors going about that both were killed by dark forces from the spirit world that they accidentally set loose.”
“I assure you that whoever murdered those two came from this world.”
“May I ask what your interest is in this matter?”
“Do you remember Maud Gatley?”
“Yes. Such a sad situation.” Florence shook her head. “The poor woman never succeeded in getting free of her addiction. I know how much you tried to help her, Adam. You paid for so many cures and they all failed.”
“The opium was always stronger than her will,” he said. “It seems that she kept a diary that she left to Elizabeth Delmont. Delmont tried to use it to blackmail me. But it disappeared the night she was murdered. And now Irene Toller is dead in a similar fashion.”
“Ah. That explains a great deal. Maud knew the truth about you and Julia and Jessica and Nathan, didn’t she?”
He nodded. “The man who appears to have been involved in the fraudulent investment scheme that Mrs. Toller and Mrs. Delmont operated is said to walk with a severe limp. The witnesses tell me that he is heavily whiskered and wears gold-rimmed glasses.”
“You suspect those are attributes of a disguise?”
“They are all too obvious and memorable.”
“I agree.” She frowned. “But if he now possesses the diary, I wonder why he has not yet contacted you to attempt blackmail.”
“Biding his time, I expect.”
“I do not blame him,” she said dryly. “If he knows anything at all about you, it will be plain to him that he must be exceedingly careful. He must know that if he makes a mistake and gives himself away, you will find him and that will be the end.”
Adam looked at her. “I will find him. It is only a matter of time.”
“I am aware of that. I have known you since you were a boy, Adam. You are relentless. But I urge you to be extremely cautious. Two people have been murdered in this affair.”
“I appreciate your concern.” He reflected briefly on Florence’s extensive connections throughout every level of society. “I find myself involved in the world of psychical research these days. Can you tell me anything about the crowd at Wintersett House that might be useful?”
“Not a great deal. Psychical researchers, in general, strike me as misguided but relatively harmless.” She paused, thinking for a moment. “I have heard that Mr. Reed, the president of the Society for Psychical Investigations, is a grieving widower who dreams of someday contacting the spirit of his dead wife.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was murdered several years ago. I do not recall all of the details, although it created quite a sensation in the press for a time. I believe Mrs. Reed’s body was found in a park a short distance from the couple’s home. Evidently she went for a stroll a day or so after the wedding and was attacked. The reports claimed that she was raped and strangled.”
“Did the police find her killer?”
“No.” Florence drank some tea and lowered her cup. “Perhaps that is one of the reasons why Durward Reed is so determined to contact her. He no doubt wants to ask her the name of the villain who murdered her so that he can bring the man to justice.”
“I would have chosen a more direct approach to finding the killer,” Adam said.
“Yes, of course. But not everyone has your connections and few are as comfortable with the thought of violence as you are.”
He let that pass. “I wonder what makes Reed believe that he can contact her.”
Florence’s brows rose. “Perhaps he is convinced that she can be reached on the Other Side because she claimed to possess psychical powers while she was on this side. He no doubt reasons that if any spirit can make contact through the veil, it will be one who had a gift for doing so while she was alive.”
“Mrs. Reed was a medium?”
“Yes, indeed. A decade ago, before her marriage, she was very fashionable. Gave séances to some of the most exclusive people.”
“She moved in elevated circles?”
Florence nodded. “She was the last member of a prominent family that had made a fortune in shipping. I had a number of clients who attended séances given by her.”
“Thank you, Florence. Once again I am in your debt.”
She assumed a familiar expression, one that told him that she was ready to transact some business.
“You can repay me easily enough with some information from your world,” she said.
“If I can answer your questions, I will do so.”
“You recall that little establishment in Marbury Street? The one that caters to gentlemen who enjoy the pleasures of discipline and bondage?”
“Yes. I heard that Mrs. Thorne had sold the business.”
“She did. But her successor, who goes by the
charming name of Mrs. Lash, is quite ambitious. She has taken a notion to expand into a new and much grander location. To that end, she has come up with a very ingenious plan to acquire the necessary financial capital. She is putting together a consortium of investors from among her regular clients.”
“Is she?” He was intrigued. “That is certainly creative of her. These investors are gentlemen who move in Society, I assume?”
“Yes. She has commissioned me to make some inquiries into the financial standing of each of them. A woman in her position who decides to do business with gentlemen cannot be too careful.”
“That is true,” he agreed.
“I’ll show you the list.” Florence rose, went to a nearby table and opened a drawer. “Two of the names were familiar to me but three are not. I trust you will be able to tell me something about them.”
He got to his feet, took the list from her and studied it for a moment, memorizing the names out of long habit. This sort of information was always useful.
“I had not realized that Ivybridge and Milborne had a taste for the whip,” he said absently.
“All of them do. That is why they became clients of the establishment in the first place. I am interested to hear what you know about any of the men on that list.”
He shrugged. “It appears to be the usual assortment of insufferable prigs and hypocrites. They are the type who affect superior airs and pretend to sterling moral characters while, behind the scenes, they routinely force themselves on their chambermaids and patronize brothels.” He paused. “But you said that it is the state of their finances that particularly interests you?”
“Yes. Given her position, Mrs. Lash will not have much recourse if it turns out that any of these men proves to be unreliable in that regard.”
He gave her a short, concise summary of what he knew of the men’s financial positions.
“Thank you.” Florence put the list back into the drawer. “I shall inform Mrs. Lash that none of her potential investors appears to be on the verge of bankruptcy.”
“Remind her that there are other risks involved. None of those men can be entirely trusted.”