A Name Unknown

by Roseanna M. White

  His lips twitched. Were he to guess, he’d say more than one had. As for the particular couple she saw . . . he had to look around a bit before he realized that the Scaddens, though standing beside each other, were turned just a bit apart, and both had shoulders so rigid they could have held up a house. More, though no one else said much to them, they refused to look at each other.

  Peter nodded in their direction. “Scaddens. Now . . . now my turn.” His first glance around caught on Gryff and Jenny, who were laughing as they edged their way out of the ballroom, no doubt looking for him and Miss Gresham. But since they were so well-liked, it would probably take them another half hour to get here.

  No matter. He smiled. “I spot . . . I spot someone with a flask . . . hidden on him.”

  “Hmm.” Miss Gresham pursed her lips as she looked around. “No obvious bulges in pockets. Which means you’re seeing something else. A stain, perhaps? Gin wouldn’t stain. Those of rum or whiskey would be too faint to see on anyone but the nearest people, but . . . ah, there we are. Someone has snuck some sherry in, from the looks of it.” She nodded toward the gentleman he’d noted. “I don’t know his name. And would point out that he could have had it before he came, but it’s still damp. Or that it could be from the wine Mr. Arnold is serving, but it’s the wrong shade. You’re quite right.”

  Someone hailed a couple walking past them, spurring the two in question to turn. Bringing them nearly to a collision with Peter. He pulled Miss Gresham back a step, until they were practically pressed against the floral-papered wall.

  Why did people find this enjoyable?

  “My turn.” Miss Gresham smiled up at him. “I spot someone who just inherited a piece of jewelry.”

  His gaze toured the room even as he said, “How do you . . . how do you know it’s inherited? Could it not . . . not have been a . . . a recent gift?”

  “No.”

  That was part of the clue, then. If it were jewelry, chances were good the wearer was a woman. And if it had been inherited, it would have to be from a recently deceased relative—likely a close one.

  He spotted two different women wearing something that could attest to mourning—Mrs. Tippet in black. And Mrs. Ellis in grey.

  The Tippets hadn’t lost anyone recently. But Mrs. Ellis . . . she had been a Gill before her marriage, hadn’t she? And the matriarch of the family had just passed away a couple months ago.

  It wouldn’t suffice for Miss Gresham, he knew. Which of the pieces of jewelry that Mrs. Ellis wore was the inherited one?

  Her necklace looked old. But did that necessitate an inheritance? The lady wasn’t showing anything to anyone—that would hardly be couth. After a moment, he shook his head. “Mrs. Ellis. But . . . I don’t know which . . . which piece.”

  Miss Gresham rewarded him with a grin—and chastised him with a click of her tongue. “Bracelet.”

  He hadn’t even noticed that she had one on, what with the way the lady kept her arm over her middle . . . ah. She was favoring it. He would have thought it more cradling a sore limb if she didn’t, as he watched, touch one finger to the wrist in question, and the gold encircling it. “Of course.”

  His turn. And he’d better make it a challenging one—she seemed able to notice an oddity on a fly’s wing from ten paces.

  Oh, but he had an idea. “I spot . . . someone who had . . . had strawberries with tea.” She was quick to note things in other people—how quick was she to pay attention to herself? She’d be looking for telltale red stains on fingers or face, rather than simple knowledge.

  Her eyes indeed worked methodically over the crowd. Back and forth, lingering, at a slow enough pace that it would seem she simply surveyed the crowd. No one, to look at her, would see calculation in her eyes. How did she do that? Keep her face perfectly pleasant, her expression perfectly at ease, her posture perfectly relaxed, while her senses were so alert?

  Then, as he watched, her face went tight. “Ah, blast. I don’t see strawberries. But I see a pickpocket.”

  “What?” He followed her gaze, knowing well that his voice had sounded as shocked to her as it did to himself.

  Mr. Dell stood with his wife at the room’s threshold, chatting with his uncle. She couldn’t possibly mean any of them, could she? Why, none of them would ever . . .

  There. Someone behind them, half in the hall. He couldn’t tell who it was. But Mr. Dell’s jacket moved just slightly, in a way the man couldn’t have achieved on his own, given that his hands were busy gesturing as he spoke.

  “What do we . . . do?”

  “Make you a hero, that’s what. Come on.” She tugged on his arm, leaving him little choice but to keep pace with her—it was that or make a scene, and possibly bump into half a dozen people with punch glasses in the process.

  He was tempted to let spill what may. “What are you . . . we can’t . . . l-let’s just fetch—”

  “Oh, buck up, Mr. Holstein, it will be easy. All you have to do is hold the bloke while everyone swarms. Leave the rest to me.”

  Hold the bloke? That would be easy? He stuttered something apparently incomprehensible—or which she just completely ignored—as she tugged him toward the door and out into the hall.

  He couldn’t have said which of the men out here was the pickpocket—everyone looked largely the same in their dark jackets, and he hadn’t seen hair nor face.

  Perhaps she had, because she nodded toward a thin fellow weaving his way toward the ballroom. “You sneak up behind and grab his arms when I give you the cue.”

  “What . . . what cue?”

  But she’d already let go and slipped away. She moved quickly, outflanking the man she’d indicated so that she’d reach the ballroom door first. Peter rushed to keep up, though he had no clue how he was to go about grabbing a fellow with nothing but her word to go on. What if it wasn’t him? Or if he hadn’t actually been stealing anything? The last thing in the world he needed was to have the whole of Cornwall saying he’d falsely accused a decent man of a crime.

  Miss Gresham clearly hadn’t considered that. She was going to enact whatever plan she’d come up with—he could either go along with her or leave her to whatever consequences came, on her own.

  No. No, he couldn’t do that to her. She was only here because he’d begged. What kind of gentleman would force a young lady to an event, lead her straight into potential trouble, then just abandon her to it?

  He followed in the wake she made, summoning his inner Locryn as she maneuvered to the front of the chap in question. The closer he got, the more he noticed about the man. Not only did he look thin even from a distance, from here Peter could see that the evening jacket hung on him—and it was frayed at the seams. Not badly enough that one was likely to notice it at a glance, but when one looked closely . . . it would be expected, perhaps, of someone from the servants’ ball outside.

  Perhaps he had simply come in to convey a message to a guest within the house. Innocent. Peter wanted no part in accusing an innocent man of anything.

  Miss Gresham reached down to her own wrist and did something. He frowned. She had on gloves, of course, and a bracelet he hadn’t noticed—he apparently had a blind spot when it came to bracelets. But it was . . . wasn’t that Jenny’s diamond bracelet? He’d seen it before, he was sure. Jenny must have lent it to her.

  Then, whatever she’d been doing apparently done, she eased into the wide, double-doored opening to the ballroom . . . and drifted to a halt, her back to the man. As if she’d not even noticed him and was simply surveying the room, looking for someone.

  “Pete?” Gryff’s voice came from but a few steps away.

  Peter ignored him and moved toward Miss Gresham and their mark. He still wasn’t sure what she was about, not until she fluttered the hand that wore the bracelet, as if greeting someone discreetly.

  Drawing attention to the bracelet. And the man noticed. His head turned a bit to follow her movement, and his fingers flexed against his leg.

  Blast—was she re
ally toying with someone else’s belongings like this? Now he had no choice but to catch the man in the act of stealing it. He certainly couldn’t let anyone get away with nicking his friend’s jewels.

  The man reached forward, his fingers barely skimming the bracelet. But it was there, then gone. Her wrist bare. Peter had been watching the whole time and wasn’t sure how the fellow had achieved it so simply—but he intended to tell Gryff to have that bracelet altered to have a more secure clasp, that was for sure.

  Miss Gresham spun, raising her wrist—and her voice in a scream. “Thief! Thief!”

  That, he supposed, was his cue. Peter lurched forward even as the man lunged to the side, in the direction of the doors that stood open to the midsummer breezes. Had he not been at the ready, the fellow may well have elbowed his way past the startled onlookers and out into the night.

  But Peter grabbed his jacket in one hand, his arm in the other. “Stop!” And listen to that, his voice sounded firm and steady, at least on that one word. Energy coursed through his veins as it did in a rousing boxing match.

  And just as in a boxing match, the man spun, fist raised. Peter ducked the punch and landed one in the other man’s stomach on his way back up.

  The man—boy? He looked young—doubled over, though it hadn’t been that hard a blow. Was he faking the reaction?

  Maybe so, but others had closed the space between the fellow and the door now. There was no chance he could get away. Not in that direction. Still he didn’t rise.

  Blast. He realized the man’s intentions half a second too late to do anything about them as he rammed into Peter’s midsection, plowing him out of the way. Or meaning to. But Peter had tussled with Gryff when they were boys, and his friend had never much liked playing by the rules of the boxing ring. He’d done this a time or two, and so Peter, rather than fall away or try to hit him, simply leaned over him until he could grab the man around the middle. It could do little but render them both immobile. But that was quite enough just now.

  Shouts swirled around him, but he didn’t notice their presence until they died down in the face of a steady thump, thump, thump. A cane against the hardwood floors. He recognized the unsteady gait of the legs that came into view. Mr. Arnold.

  “Mr. Holstein. What is going on here?”

  Deep rose silk swished into view as well. “Oh, Mr. Holstein, thank you! This man stole the bracelet right off my arm, Mr. Arnold. If Mr. Holstein hadn’t stopped him, I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “What?” Mr. Arnold sounded horrified, not disbelieving. “Who is this man?”

  Gryff was there now, gripping the arms of the chap. Peter eased off him, though he was ready to grab again if the fellow tried to make a break for it.

  Apparently he realized the game was up. Face shuttered, jaw set, the stranger didn’t struggle as another neighbor grabbed him from the other side and a third rushed up to reach into his pockets.

  He came up with Jenny’s bracelet. A wallet that earned a gasping claim from Mr. Dell. Two necklaces, and a roll of pound notes, bound by a silver clip.

  Chaos naturally ensued. And given the hands that clapped his shoulders, Peter should have been glad of it. Glad that Miss Gresham’s scheme had worked. Glad to have returned the goods to his neighbors and earned himself some respect in the process.

  And he was. But he couldn’t keep from watching the man. And so, couldn’t help but see the shadows that chased each other through his eyes. He saw the way the fellow glanced toward the parlor and gave a miniscule shake of his head.

  Peter followed his gaze. A young woman stood in the doorway, pale and obviously horrified. A different shade of horror than that worn by all the other ladies in attendance. She gripped her dress’s skirt with bony white knuckles, but it didn’t quite camouflage the way her hands shook. She pressed her lips together for a moment. But only for a moment. A sob shook her, and her lips parted. “No! Tim, no! Please don’t take him. Please.”

  The thief muttered a curse. “Betty, I told you—”

  Mr. Dell grabbed the young woman by the arm. “You’re his accomplice, are you?”

  “No!” The level of panic in Tim’s eyes shouted love. “No, she’s not. She didn’t know what I was about, I swear it. It was just a dare, it was. Me cousin outside came up with the idea—I was going to return it all, I—”

  “Likely story. Which you can save for the constable.” Gryff spoke in his barrister voice, which Tim and Betty both seemed to recognize. They shrank, right before Peter’s eyes. Just curled up into themselves.

  The shadows under the girl’s eyes stood out more clearly now than the ones in them. And by the way her shoulders curved forward, he could see that they were sharper even than Miss Gresham’s. That her cheekbones were far too pronounced. She was gaunt. The kind that came either of sickness or the most extreme poverty.

  Tim wasn’t that thin. Which made him suspect illness in the girl.

  Made him sure of it—or something did. Maybe it was just the way she looked or the handkerchief he spotted balled in her fist—though it had nothing as obvious as bright bloodstains, it did have faded, rusty ones. Outlines of them, as if just the edges of the blotches wouldn’t wash out.

  Peter headed her way. “Mr. Dell, you’re . . . you’re hurting her.” He must be—her arms had no meat to them, and the postmaster held on quite tightly.

  “Well, she’s a thief, Mr. Holstein. I bet if we search her, we’ll find more of our valuables.”

  “No, you won’t.” Miss Gresham’s voice came from beside Peter, though he didn’t take his eyes off the girl to see why his friend spoke with such certainty. “Look at her, sir—she carries no bag, that dress has no pockets—where would she hide anything?”

  Now Betty’s whole self shook, not just her hands. “I didn’t take nothing. I wouldn’t.”

  Peter believed her, which probably made him a fool. Certainly Mr. Dell would have labeled him so—his grip didn’t loosen. “Are you . . . are you ill, m-miss?”

  The girl averted her face, which only managed to show off her too-severe jawbone. “It’s not catching, sir.”

  “You need medicine.” Miss Gresham said it on a sigh. The kind that wept with regret. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t—” She cut herself off, but Peter heard the completion of her sentence in his heart—she wouldn’t have made a show of catching Tim had she known. She would have confronted him quietly. Or perhaps not at all. Perhaps she would have reckoned that Mr. Dell could afford the loss of the small amount he likely had in his wallet tonight, and it could mean life to this girl.

  Peter reached into his own pocket before he quite knew his plan. “Here.” He hadn’t much on him either. Five pounds—paltry indeed. So he slipped his cufflinks off as well, they being the only other valuable he had with him, aside from the watch that had been Opa’s. He pressed them into the girl’s hands, though her fingers seemed to close around the offering by instinct more than desire, given the shocked circles of her eyes. He tried to reassure her with a smile. “It’s . . . it’s all I have with me. B-But if you come to . . . to Kensey Manor—t-two miles out of town—my p-people will feed you. You can sleep . . . sleep there. And—”

  “Mr. Holstein!” Mr. Arnold’s voice sounded along with the thud of his cane. “You will not encourage thieves in our midst!”

  He’d always appreciated the faded Austrian cadence of Mr. Arnold’s voice, especially after Opa died. The man had always reminded him of his grandfather—the gentle demeanor, the white hair, the kindly smile. But just now their host was glowering and looking ready to bring his cane down across Peter’s outstretched hand.

  But he wasn’t a recalcitrant child. He shook his head. And tucked his hands into his pockets. “As you d-do unto . . . unto the least of these, Mr. Arnold. Th—this girl needs help.”

  Another punctuating thump of his cane. “Three-quarters of England needs help. You cannot go offering cufflinks to all of them.”

  For once, he didn’t savor the way them soun
ded like zem or the throaty vowels. He looked deep into the rheumy eyes of the old man everyone respected, whom he had always respected. And he shook his head. “No. J-Just . . . just the ones G-God puts . . . before me.” This girl. Little Olivia, if he could ever figure out how to find her.

  Because he certainly wasn’t going to make a show of it. He wished he’d have had the presence of mind to wait until later to make this offering.

  But she could slip away. Disappear. He may never have had the chance to help her if he’d waited. And a clear conscience before the Lord was more important than the respect of his neighbors.

  Which he repeated again to himself, and again, when the murmurs around him turned into a cacophony of opinions he had no desire to sort out.

  Mr. Arnold, gaze disappointed, shook his head.

  Peter looked over to Gryff, who sighed and then caught Jenny’s gaze. Her hands were clutched to her middle, her eyes still wide. She nodded. “I’ve no desire to press charges. The bracelet was recovered. No harm done.”

  Mr. Dell sputtered. “Well, rest assured I do want to hold him accountable! Considerable harm has been done, to our sensibilities if not to our persons. We cannot suffer such crime in our midst or it will run rampant.”

  Tim’s shoulders sagged. And when a whimper came from Betty—his sister? wife?—he set his gaze on the floor and refused to lift it again. He had done wrong. Perhaps he knew it, or perhaps he only regretted getting caught, Peter couldn’t know which. What he knew without question was that the man was now realizing that his gamble had cost him the comfort of caring for the girl.

  Who else did they have? Was there someone else to see to her?

  “Where is Constable Newth?” Mr. Dell stood on his toes to look over the heads of the crowd. “He was in the ballroom, was he not?”

  And the magistrate too, no doubt. Peter sighed.

  Mr. Arnold cleared his throat. “Mr. Holstein, you are obviously distressed. I will call on you on the morrow. After church.”

  The fingers still in his pockets curled at being dismissed. “We . . . we’re taking the g-girl with us.”