No Place for a Lady

by Joan Smith

  “That’s that then,” Algernon said grimly. “He’s got her. Keep looking. We’ll tackle him when he comes back and beat the truth out of him.”

  The men kept searching the desk, opening letters and glancing through them. Not knowing what we were looking for, I went to the bedroom. I noticed right away that it did not have the air of an occupied room. There was nothing on the toilet table, no brushes or combs. I went to the dresser and drew out the top drawer. It was empty, as were the others. Next I tried the clothespress. Vivaldi had removed every stitch of his clothing. It was empty.

  I called into the parlor, “Come and look at this, Algie. I don’t think Professor Vivaldi is coming back.”

  He turned and hurried across the floor to the bedchamber. “He’s taken everything away,” I said. “When did he do it? He did not leave with a trunk this morning.”

  “He didn’t have much,” Starkey said. “Always wore the same clothes.”

  “He must have had some linens at least,” I said, and gave a gasp as I remembered that box of books. I told them about it.

  “Did you happen to notice the address?” Algernon asked.

  “There was no address. I mentioned it to the tranter. He said Vivaldi had told him where it was to go, but I didn’t ask.”

  “What did the driver look like?” Algernon asked, or barked rather, for he was extremely upset.

  “He wore a cap over his eyes. He was about forty or thereabouts, with an average sort of build. There was nothing to single him out from a thousand other workmen.

  “Did you happen to notice anything about the carriage?” Sharkey asked.

  “I hardly glanced at it, I fear. I did notice that it was already well loaded. It had big cardboard cartons on it. There was something printed on them.”

  “What? What were the words?”

  “It wasn’t whole words. Just letters, and I think some numbers. I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

  “Would the letters be A-D-L?” Sharkey asked.

  “Yes! That’s right. How did you know?”

  “I’ve seen them before,” he said, with a sly smile. Then he said to Algie, “They stand for Adele D. Lalonde. It’s how all her goods for the shop are marked. She has smuggled silk shipped up from Kent, picks it up at the dock. Vivaldi used the same wagon to take away his belongings.”

  “That is odd. Surely it was not a coincidence,” I said.

  The men had forgotten I was there. They looked surprised when they turned and saw me, listening with both ears perked. “Algie, what is going on? Is Mrs. Clarke in danger?”

  “She might very well be dead by now,” he replied grimly. “Come on, Sharkey. I’ll need your skills to break into the shop.”

  On this menacing speech they tore out of the flat. I heard them clattering down the stairs as I extinguished the candles and locked the door. Mrs. Clarke had been kidnapped. Her life was in danger, and presumably Algernon and Sharkey were going to Lalonde’s Modiste Shop to try to rescue her. But I hadn’t the least notion why anyone would kidnap a harmless young widow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I went downstairs, confused and frightened, to find Miss Thackery, confused and angry, waiting for me.

  “What on earth is going on, Catherine?” she demanded. I am only Catherine at moments of high drama, or when in disgrace. “Sharkey and Mr. Alger galloping through the house like a pair of colts, and you leaving your dinner half eaten—” Something in my face told her she was dealing with a more serious issue than poor manners. “What is it? What is the matter?” she demanded.

  I drew her back into the dining room and closed the door. “Mrs. Clarke is missing,” I said. “She did not come home from work. Algie thinks Professor Vivaldi has abducted her. Vivaldi has emptied his room and left.”

  “Good God!” she said, clutching at her heart. “Abducted that nice Mrs. Clarke! Are you sure it is not Mr. Butler who has her? It might be a runaway match.”

  “You are still thinking in terms of polite society, Miss Thackery. There is nothing to stop her from marrying Butler if she wishes. This is Wild Street. She has been abducted.”

  I told her the little I knew, and when she had digested that, we were reduced to speculation.

  “Why would Vivaldi do such a thing? He never behaved like a satyr. You don’t think he will harm her? You know what I mean ... rape.” The last word was a shiver of fear.

  “Algie thinks she might already be dead,” I said, and felt not only sorry and angry but guilty as well, for having traduced the woman.

  I no longer thought she was Algie’s mistress. Whatever was going on, it was not that. That was not why Sharkey followed her. It was to prevent her being kidnapped. And Mademoiselle Lalonde’s shop was involved somehow.

  We had a glass of wine to calm our nerves as we discussed the matter. I told Miss Thackery my suspicions, omitting any mention of a possible affair between the widow and Algernon. We tried to make sense of it, but it seemed a senseless business. She had no money, so it was not a kidnapping to hold her to ransom. What could a young widow be doing that would put her life in jeopardy? Her son meant the world to her; she would not endanger herself when Jamie depended on her.

  “I was just thinking,” Miss Thackery said, “that shop where she works, there must be Frenchies there, eh? The woman who runs it is Mademoiselle Lalonde. Could it have anything to do with spying? They say in the journals that London is full of French spies. She might be induced to do it, because of her husband being killed by the French. A sort of revenge. But Mrs. Clarke does not even speak French. I don’t see how she could be learning anything there, unless she is stealing letters, or some such thing.”

  I thought of that French novel by her bed, and her insistence the first time we met that she did not speak French. She obviously did, but did not want anyone to know it. The French staff and customers at Lalonde’s would speak freely in front of her if they thought she could not understand them. “I think she does speak French, or read it at least,” I said, and mentioned the French novel as evidence.

  “You never told me that, Cathy.”

  “It did not seem important.”

  “And Algernon is in on it, you think? I am surprised he would put that poor girl in such jeopardy.”

  “Let us not judge him too harshly until we know all the facts.” I had learned one lesson from this experience at least.

  Miss Thackery’s next notion was that Wild Street was too treacherous for such greenheads as us, and we must remove to a hotel at once.

  “We might be able to help in some way,” I countered. “I shall stay, but if you—”

  “It was you I was thinking of, Cathy. No one would harm an old lady like me.”

  We finished our wine and went to the saloon to await news. It seemed a very long time before Algernon and Sharkey returned—alone. I went darting to the saloon door to ask if they had found her. Their grim faces made me fear they had discovered her corpse, but it was not quite that bad.

  “No one was at the shop. Sharkey got the back door open for us,” Algie said vaguely. I assumed breaking into locked houses was no new thing for Sharkey. “Anne’s bonnet and pelisse were gone, but she had left her reticule behind, so she had been there all right.”

  Sharkey was carrying her black patent bag. As he held it out to show us, there was a gasp of horror. Turning, we saw Miss Lemon in the doorway. “That is her reticule!” she said, rushing forward. “Mr. Alger ... have you found her?”

  “Not yet, Miss Lemon,” he said quietly, “but we shan’t stop until we do.”

  “She is dead! I know it. Oh, I told her she should not do it! It was too dangerous.”

  Algie hurried forward to speak quietly to her, with his back to us to shield his words. I realized that Miss Lemon knew precisely what her mistress was up to. I felt that Algernon had hired her to help protect Mrs. Clarke. They spoke for a moment, then asked for the reticule. They searched it for clues, but apparently found nothing. When Miss Lemon went back upstairs t
o watch Jamie, she took the reticule with her.

  Algie turned to me. “Vivaldi has not returned, of course?”

  “No, and he won’t. Algie, have you no idea at all where she can be?” He looked at me and Miss Thackery uncertainly, as if he would like to take us into his confidence.

  “We know what is going on,” I said. “Mrs. Lalonde’s shop was some sort of French spy center, and Mrs. Clarke was spying on them.”

  “So you figured it out. Well, it is true. Anne never told them that she speaks French. They assumed she did not—and used to discuss their business in front of her from time to time. She soon realized they were spies and came to Whitehall to volunteer her services. We wanted her to quit the job. We would send in an older, more experienced woman to take over. Mrs. Clarke would not hear of it. She put us on to a few things.”

  “Did they ever mention any other place—one of their homes or whatnot—where they might have taken her?”

  “There was only Mademoiselle, who is in fact Madame Lalonde, and her husband, Alfonse Lalonde, Or at least they lived together as man and wife. He handled the deliveries and accounts and so on. Madame Lalonde did the designing and fitting; Anne helped with the sewing. The Lalondes lived above the shop. It is empty as well.”

  “Then you have no idea where she might be?”

  “Not at the moment, but we shan’t give up. I know a few cafes where the Frenchies hang out in the evenings. Sharkey has been helping me. There is one club where Alfonse goes fairly regularly. He might be there, and if not, Sharkey can direct us to a few of his close friends. I’ll haul them off for questioning.”

  “Why do you think they abducted her at this time, if she has been there six months without suspicion?”

  He replied, “Anne thought they were becoming suspicious of her. The last information she brought me was a false clue. I think they were testing her. Alfonse was supposed to be meeting a contact at Hyde Park at eleven o’clock at night. We know they are getting information from someone at the Horse Guards, an English traitor. Naturally we are eager to discover who he is. I went along to try to see the contact, but he never came. I don’t think Alfonse saw me, but perhaps they had another man looking out for me. If I was seen, then they know that Anne tipped me off. She was certain they did not know she spoke French, but I fear Vivaldi tumbled to it somehow. That is why he moved in here, to watch her.”

  “Perhaps he saw that French book when he took Jamie the tin soldiers.”

  “She was a little careless about leaving her books around, but she had so few visitors it did not seem important. If Vivaldi called, then it was for the purpose of snooping around. No doubt he spotted something.”

  “I wish you could have convinced her to quit when you thought they mistrusted her,” I said, not in accusation but in frustration.

  “So do I; she was adamant. I did tell her that if any such thing as this happened, she must tell them to contact Lord Dolman, who will pay handsomely for her release. She is to claim kinship with him. Greed is a strong incentive. I doubt they would kill her without trying for the money. That will buy us some time. Papa will send the note to me at once if it comes.”

  “Would he actually pay for her safety?” I asked.

  “The Horse Guards do provide funds for such contingencies, but the idea is to use the money as a bait to catch the spies.” Algernon rose and said, “We must be going now. I only came back to let Miss Lemon know what is afoot. You might go up and spend some time with her if you want to help, ladies. This is a hard time for her to be alone.”

  “Yes, of course we shall take care of Miss Lemon.”

  He smiled a sad little smile, the kind of smile that made me wish we were alone. It was intimate, tender, loving. “Be careful, Algie,” I said.

  “We’ll keep in touch. You must be cursing me for making you stay on here. But we had things so cozily arranged, with Sharkey and myself to look out for Mrs. Clarke—and Butler always on hand to help out, though he hasn’t a notion what is going on. It seemed a shame to disrupt it. What we did not know was that Vivaldi was a part of the ring. He came a month ago. For that long, they have suspected her.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s French,” Sharkey said. “Letting on he’s Italian gives an excuse for his funny accent.”

  “You are probably right.” Algernon said. Then he looked at his watch and hauled Sharkey away.

  “What a wretched state of affairs,” Miss Thackery said. “I shall go up and sit with Miss Lemon now. She must be distracted. Will you come with me, Cathy?”

  “I shall be up shortly. I just want to sit quietly a moment and see if I can remember anything that might help. If Vivaldi ever said anything, you know, or ... I don’t know. I just want to think.”

  Rational thought was impossible, of course. My mind was too full of horrible possibilities: Anne alone with those wicked Frenchies who would not deal kindly with an English spy; poor Jamie, not only fatherless but motherless as well. And I thought of how brave young Anne was. She seemed the softest, gentlest girl in all of England, and all the time there was a tiger’s heart lurking in her breast. Algie had warned her she was in jeopardy, but she would not stop as long as there was hope of retaliating for her husband’s death. How she must have loved her James!

  I was not alone long. Within five minutes, Mr. Butler came downstairs, looking worried. “Mrs. Clarke is still not back from work, Miss Irving. Have you heard from her? Very likely she is working overtime. She does that once in a while. Perhaps I should go down to the shop to walk her home. I mean—” He stopped, staring at me. “Something has happened to her,” he said in a hollow voice. His ruddy face turned paper white.

  Mr. Butler would have to know the whole soon enough. He was Mrs. Clarke’s closest friend. She might have told him things she had not even told Algie. It was unlikely, but he might possibly be able to shed some light on the disappearance.

  I invited him to sit down and said as gently as I could that Mrs. Clarke had vanished—and we thought Mademoiselle Lalonde and Professor Vivaldi had abducted her.

  “That foul old wretch! I knew he had his rheumy old eyes on her, bringing Jamie toy soldiers!”

  “I do not think that was his reason, Mr. Butler. It has to do with the Frenchies at the shop. The war ...”

  He sat trembling, unable to speak. “I always knew there was something—she had some secret. About her speaking French, for instance. Her Bible is in French, and I once saw her reading it. She said she refused to speak French in public, or even admit she knew it, because the French had killed her husband. Why did she not tell me what she was up to? I might have helped her. To put herself in such danger!”

  “Can you think of anything else she said that might help us find her, Mr. Butler? Did she ever mention any names of people who came into the shop.”

  “She had to make a gown for Caro Lamb once.”

  “Not just customers, but other people. Frenchmen,” I said, to make myself clear.

  “She never talked about the shop much,” he said. “Mostly she talked about her husband and Jamie. Lately, though, she had begun to get over his death, I think. When you put the notice up about selling the house, we agreed we would both move into the same house again, if we could. I hoped, of course, that we might live together as man and wife. I think I had half talked her into it. At least she let me call her Anne. We found a dandy little flat on Tavistock Street. Too expensive for one of us, but if we pitched in ... Mind you, she did not accept an offer of marriage, but she did not say no, either.”

  “And you cannot think of anything at all that might help us find her?”

  “No, but demme, I’ll find her if I have to tear London apart stone by stone.” He flung his arms about as he spoke.

  To try to assuage his rising hysteria, I explained Algernon’s plans for her rescue and suggested that he might be able to help in some manner, but he must stay calm, for Anne’s sake. I poured him a glass of wine and sat with him, waiting for Algernon to return.
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br />   Chapter Fifteen

  I have no doubt the saloon on Wild Street has seen some strange things in its day, but I doubt it ever saw stranger goings-on than it saw that night. I had just convinced Butler he must eat to keep up his strength and sent him to our dining room for some of Mary’s chicken, when Algernon returned, alone and in a high state of excitement.

  He peered in at the saloon door to see if I was alone before he exclaimed, “I have the ransom note!” He held it out in his hand to show me. “I called on Papa to tell him what had happened. He had just received the note.”

  “What does it say?” I asked, jumping up to examine it.

  It was written on a piece of cheap white paper. “That is Vivaldi’s writing,” Algernon said. “I have seen it on your bulletin board.”

  The note was brief and to the point:

  Five thousand pounds in gold coins. You have until noon tomorrow. Details for exchange following. If you want to see Mrs. Clarke alive, do not go to police.

  “How do we know she is not already dead?” I asked.

  He handed me another note, written on a piece of paper torn from the top of that same evening’s journal, bearing the printed date to prove when it was written. I opened it, and a lock of Anne’s hair fell into my palm. That little blond curl caused my stomach to clench in a knot. I cringed to think of that poor girl, so vulnerable at the hands of those thugs. Why had they cut her beautiful hair? It seemed a wanton and cruel act of vandalism. The note was in her own hand, but her nervous condition made the writing wobbly. It said:

  Algernon: I am alive and well. Please do as they say, and take care of Jamie for me.

  “Are you certain this is her writing?” I asked.

  “I am fairly sure. I do not think they would kill her when she is worth five thousand pounds to them alive.”

  I looked again at that pathetic little blond curl. “Don’t let Butler see this. Why did they cut her hair?”