Mr. Khaffar folded his arms, and stared down the length of his nose at Edward.
“You might have heard me referring to the Great Randolph as I walked through the door.” Edward pushed past Mr. Khaffar as confidently as he could and strode down the hallway to the kitchen. He turned. “Please follow me.”
In the kitchen a bottle of gin and one glass lay on the table. Alasdair had obviously taken refuge there as he waited with Mr. Khaffar in the morning room. Edward longed to pick up the glass, but the web he was about to weave was a dangerous one.
He opened a small door that stood behind the main hall door. Dark steps led downstairs to a dry, dusty cellar. “If you would excuse me for one moment.”
Edward stepped down into the murky darkness and breathed slowly, waiting patiently for his night vision to sharpen. Robert had said that he was as good as any animal in the woods when they had spent the long winter nights in Rochester woods. He had never envisaged that Edward would use it in a cellar surrounded by books. Ledgers.
“If there is an escape tunnel down there, you are finished.” Mr. Khaffar’s voice bounced down the stone steps, and deadened on the wall of leather and paper.
Alasdair’s groan in response was audible even to Edward.
“Not to worry, Mr. Khaffar. I will be right with you,” Edward shouted towards the doorway. Unerringly he walked to the back of the cellar, where the ceiling vaulted slightly. Here the ledgers did not have names on them, but were merely marked with a large R. He selected the last two and trudged back up the stairs, staggering under the weight of the overlarge books.
He blinked rapidly as he reappeared out of the cellar.
Alasdair cowered in the corner, his eyes widening as he took in the ledgers in Edward’s hand. “Mr. Fiske, are you quite sure?”
Edward nodded. Balancing the ledgers on the kitchen table, he picked up the bottle of gin and glass and placed them in the kitchen sink. “Alasdair, I will need two pairs of gloves.”
Alasdair breathed an obvious sigh of relief before brightening. “Of course, sir.”
Edward frowned as Mr. Khaffar blocked Alasdair’s way. “Do you have no respect for the higher art of double-entry accounting, Mr. Khaffar? If you wish to know what I am doing with Lords Anglethorpe and Granwich then you will kindly don the extra pair of gloves that Alasdair will bring you. I don’t just allow anyone to touch my ledgers. And when I take them to the Old Bailey, no one touches them.”
Mr. Khaffar stepped slowly back at the words Old Bailey. Alasdair nodded and at a half run left the kitchen. Edward waited as Alasdair’s steps thudded up the stairs to Edward’s rooms above, and then, more slowly came back down again.
Pulling on the white cotton gloves that he normally used for ton gatherings, Edward waited as Mr. Khaffar tried to force his enormous hands into the delicate pair that Alasdair tentatively gave him.
“Right then. Shall we begin?”
Mr. Khaffar’s scimitar scraped against the kitchen table as he leant forward.
“I say.” Edward raised an eyebrow. “Did I mention my rule about knives too? Can’t have them too near the ledgers. Please give Alasdair your sword.”
Mr. Khaffar clenched his white clad fists. “Is this some sort of joke, Fiske?”
Edward stopped. He’d pushed it too far. “No. Please just place the sword against the wall.” At least then Alasdair would stop acting so jittery.
He waited as Mr. Khaffar leant the curved deadly knife against the wall. “Now then, shall we begin? I haven’t done any work with Lords Anglethorpe and Granwich, but I have done work for them.” He put his hands up as Mr. Khaffar growled. “I know, I know, you asked me not to work for anyone else, but this trade, and the one for Count Ondaren was set up before I started work for you. It will take time to complete.” He stabbed his fingers at the table. “These ledgers detail the work that I have carried out.”
“What does the R stand for?” Mr. Khaffar pointed to the spine of the ledgers.
Alasdair moved suddenly in Edward’s line of vision.
Edward folded his arms. “Why, Randolph of course.”
“The Great Randolph,” Mr. Khaffar muttered quietly.
“Yes. The boat. Mr. Phelps, another client of mine is rather surprised at how long the Great Randolph is taking to return to London.” Edward pulled open the first ledger, and with a deep breath flipped to the last, folded down page. “This is Lord Anglethorpe’s ledger.”
Mr. Khaffar looked blankly at the page of numbers and writing. “St. Lucia? That’s an island in the Caribbean.”
Edward nodded. “Precisely.”
“But you said that the Great Randolph was returning from New York and…”
Edward nodded as the comprehension dawned on Mr. Khaffar’s face.
“The Great Randolph is not only calling at New York, it’s gone to St. Lucia as well, that’s why it is late!”
“St. Lucia and a few other places. This is after all only Lord Anglethorpe’s investment. He is particularly interested in St. Lucia.”
Mr. Khaffar frowned. “But there’s nothing in St. Lucia apart from bananas.”
Edward lifted his chin. “And people,” he said quietly.
Mr. Khaffar ran a gloved finger across the line of numbers, and then a second finger down against a column marked ‘quantity’. “Two thousand!”
Edward steepled his hands against each other. “When the boat was built, I took care to specify a certain capacity, as it were. Our investors were keen to maximize their return, and our builders in Bristol Docks were very well versed in such trade.”
“Two thousand people.”
“In irons of course,” Edward said perfunctorily, the revulsion at his own words invisibly coating his innards. It was Newgate prison that must have tainted him.
Mr. Khaffar held his stomach and began to laugh. His almond eyes closed to become almost fully hidden. “To think that I thought I was a depraved man. Lord Anglethorpe is a figure of virtue. London’s greatest spymaster indeed.”
Edward nodded. “Ha. Yes.” He cocked his head on one side. “After all, isn’t it the most prominent of figures that we have most to fear from. That minister of parliament that was heading a committee on prostitution reform for example? Caught owning a brothel.”
“It is a most profitable business.” Mr. Khaffar sobered. He ran his finger further along the entries that covered the page. “Amount, sixty thousand pounds.” He looked up. “That’s rather low for two thousand souls isn’t it? I thought the going rate was three hundred dollars a slave, sixty pounds an investment as it were?”
Edward clenched his fists behind his back. If he didn’t hold it together, everything would unravel. He relaxed his hands and brought his arms forward. Leaning on the table he pushed the clear spectacles further up his nose. “We have, what is called, a down payment arrangement in place.”
“Down payment?”
Edward swallowed. “The journey from St. Lucia is a perilous one. Not all of the goods arrive at the final destination. The full sum will be paid once the cargo is delivered. If you might run your hand along a little further?”
Mr. Khaffar nodded as he traced the column that said total. It was still blank.
“The cargo has not yet arrived in New York,” Edward said. “And the price nowadays has become rather variable. With the abolition act of 1807, this sort of trade is a little behind closed curtains, if you will. Of course, owning such people is not illegal as such, just the act of selling them now is rather tricky.”
“And Lord Granwich?”
Slowly Edward closed the first ledger, making sure the pages did not crumple. He slid the second ledger onto the table and paused to straighten his jacket. Again his fingers brushed against his pocket watch.
“Lord Granwich is concerned with the leg of the Great Randolph from New York to London. He heard about the Great Randolph from Mr. Phelps. He was attracted by the advertised returns of 20 percent too—”
“Alright I get the picture, Fiske. Show me the entry.” Mr. Khaffar smiled. “I bet this is just as good as Lord Anglethorpe.”
“Better, much better,” Edward murmured, pulling the pages quickly over to the last entries.
Mr. Khaffar placed a hand on the top left of the page. “New York,” he read aloud. “Twenty thousand casks.”
Edward looked away. “Rum, my dear Mr. Khaffar. Twenty thousand casks of rum.”
Mr. Khaffar sneered. “There is nothing disgusting in that.”
Edward affected an astonished glance. “But there is, Mr. Khaffar, especially to a respectable accountant such as me. If you would just look at the fifth column…”
Mr. Khaffar bent his head further over the ledger. “Import tax. It’s not filled in.”
Edward rocked back on his heels. “Exactly.”
“No import tax on twenty thousand casks of rum? How much is that? How will you get away with it?”
“I have my arrangements.” Edward tapped his nose. “And around thirty thousand guineas.”
“That’s more than the cargo from St. Lucia to New York.”
Edward forced the smile of satisfaction onto his face. “I know, Mr. Khaffar. Money and trade, isn’t it lovely?” He laughed stiltedly and closed the ledger with a snap. He sobered. “It has been a very long arrangement to set up, hence why I have denied having other clients until now.” He pushed a pleading tone into his voice. “I hope you will forgive me? Once the Great Randolph docks I will be able to pay everyone off.”
Mr. Khaffar narrowed his gaze. “I will expect a share of the profits.”
Edward nodded hopefully. “Of course, that is what I wished to speak to you about,” he hesitated, “when we were up north. Now, would you like to finally look at your own accounts?”
CHAPTER 11
Celine edged out of the coach, wincing as she hit the hard stones of the church floor beneath her feet.
“Celine? Report.” Pithadora’s voice boomed throughout the church.
Celine stumbled. Normally Pithadora would wait until they were in the vicarage for them to give their report, but an uncharacteristically anger filled Pithadora’s voice.
From sheer habit Celine began to report. “Lord Granwich admits there is a possibility that he might have a son.”
Pithadora remained silent. Celine licked her lips. “Lady Guthrie says the son is dead.” For a reason she could not define, Celine did not name him, nor the other man that Lady Guthrie had mentioned. Pithadora hadn’t seemed interested in following up on the note before. Yet now she wanted a full in-depth report as to Celine’s activities.
Pithadora’s shadow fell away from the door. “Then the case is closed.”
Celine struggled to the vicarage door. “Mr. Khaffar still wants to kill Edward.”
Pithadora swept away across the hall carpet and did not turn. “That is not my problem. And it is yours no longer.”
Celine gasped as her ankle throbbed. “What do you mean? Pithadora!” Her cry died away as Pithadora turned. The woman’s face was whiter than Meissen dinnerware.
“If you wish to remain in the Melinno Society, Celine, you must do what I say and cut all ties with him.”
“But Pithadora, I—”
“I don’t want to hear it, Celine. He is only a man. A very strange one at that. Remember, you can always leave.”
“But this is my home.”
Pithadora’s face did not soften. “Then it is a choice that you will not find hard to make.” Putting a hand to her skirts, Pithadora swept from the room.
“A pox on her and her kind.”
Celine jumped and cried as her ankle jarred against the floor. Gunvald put a steadying hand underneath her arm.
“You can’t say that, Gunvald. She runs us all, and the Melinno Society.”
“Celine, she is the Melinno Society.”
Celine nodded. Gunvald was right. Pithadora never told them the results of the information that they passed on to her. Occasionally she would return to her house after meeting with their benefactor and smile and say that yet another crisis had been averted that day. And on those days Celine would float around, the sure knowledge of being some help in the dark world brightening the sordidness of her assumed behavior.
For there was now no one else apart from Pithadora who gave the orders. All of the old guard had died away, slowly becoming too old and infirm too continue, mostly dying in their sleep. And those who had been younger had disappeared one by one to new things as Celine had grown up. Celine crushed the grief inside herself. They had disappeared, along with Angelique, Celine’s only real mother figure, just when she had needed her. And never come back.
Celine had been the youngest blood left in the society. She was the one that had recruited Gunvald after finding him attempting to enter Lord Anglethorpe’s mansion in Mount Street, and then Silver she had found at the local stables when she had needed a horse in a hurry. Roland—Roland had just turned up one day, lost, and had become a part of the fixtures and fittings. Then there was Bella, her dressmaker…the list went on.
“She’s right though. The investigation is over, Celine.”
Celine shook her head. “No. Remember what I said about those names. There has to be more to this than meets the eye. I can just feel it.”
Gunvald gave her a nod. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning and help you then. I have some things I need to do myself.” He gave a flash of a smile and strode away.
Bed, it sounded so tempting. Just to lie and rest her ankle. Celine looked down. The wound was bleeding again, black streaks of blood staining her shoes. If she stayed in the vicarage, with the Melinno Society, everything would go on as it had before. Someone would patch her up. Pithadora would give her a new order, and she would throw herself into being whoever was required for the job. And being with whoever Pithadora required her to charm. She shivered. Where before a dead part of her would shrug and mutter a silent ‘who cares?’, now it reared its head and asked ‘why?’. And then, ‘what about Edward?’
She rested her head in her hands. Edward. Gunvald was right. He wasn’t the man that she had fallen in…want with.
Yes. That was the right word, want. By god.
Because Edward represented all the things that Celine didn’t have, just as Henry had. Money, routine, interests that didn’t revolve around knives. Pithadora was as always, correct, she was looking for a father figure in all the wrong places.
The realization was deadening. With a stiff leg Celine limped towards the Melinno library. There was no way that she was going to sleep with the thought that the emotion that had driven her away up north to rescue someone, endangering everyone around her was mere want.
Pithadora had sung it at her in a high pitched voice when she was little. “I want, never gets, I want, never gets.” Celine sniffed. And then she’d beaten her with a spoon and sent her to her room.
But Edward is not really Edward, a treacherous voice whispered inside her. Does a father figure truss dangerous prisoners silently in the dark? Does a father figure pick up mice as if they were pets?
Well yes. Celine answered herself. Father figures were meant to deal with mice of course…but the whole Lady Guthrie thing. And the jumping onto a moving carriage thing. And the kisses…
“Shut up.” Celine jumped as she unwittingly gave voice to the words. She glanced around her, but the hall stayed silent. The others were either at dinner or bed. Limping, she opened the door to the Melinno library, and lighting a taper from the low burning coals of the fire, lit an oil lamp. A glow lit up the room, revealing the ranks of shelves. Each shelf was locked, but Celine was prepared.
Whispering a silent apology to Gunvald, she drew the lock picks that she had pulled from him when he had put a hand out to support her, out of her pocket and walked down the line of shelves.
The books of military personnel were in the shelving nearest the fire. Carefully placing
the oil lamp on the table, she looked at the lock. It was seemingly simple, but Celine never had quite progressed in the lessons that Gunvald had tried to give her. Holding the first pick in her mouth, she inserted the second into the hole of the lock. Waiting until it caught, she lifted it up and kept up the pressure before inserting the first pick under the second. With the first pick caught as well, she gave a flick of her wrist and held her breath.
With a dull thunk, the tumblers turned. The glass door swung open under its own weight. Pulling the picks out from the door she pushed them back into her pocket. Celine turned to the table and lifting up the oil lamp, brought it closer to the shelves.
The lists of personnel would be in the order of the alphabet, but none of that helped her, for the books themselves were categorized by military segment, Dragoons, Horse Guards and so on. Pulling out the top book, Celine hefted it over to the table and began to read.
She found him immediately.
He was right there amongst the Dragoons, first battalion. Major Coxon-Williams decorated in dispatches, ably supported by Sergeant Fairleigh.
Celine almost dropped the book in surprise. There was that name again, Fairleigh.
She read further down the lists of names, the news cuttings, the dispatches and information that had been passed on to Pithadora, written into the ledger in Pithadora’s round hand.
And then she saw it, slipped into the penultimate paragraph of the book.
Communiqué from Major Coxon-Williams to Lord Guthrie Chair of War Ethics
Bloody hell—Lord Guthrie, Lady Guthrie’s unwitting husband. Celine shivered.
Strange events in Bisbal. Thirty Spanish peasants seemingly carrying British muskets. Turned on my troop as if knew I was there. Have sent Fairleigh with message. Hope to see you alive.
The handwriting was all over the page, slanting this way and that. Celine picked up the oil burner and looked more closely. The paragraph hadn’t been written on to the page, it had been written on to another piece of paper and stuck in. She was looking at the original message.
But if she was looking at the original message, then who had received the communiqué for it to fall into Melinno hands?
Maddening Minx Page 9